


One Slice of Chocolate Cake

by miamourxoxo



Category: MCU, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abusive Parents, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angry Bucky Barnes, Angst, CEO!Bucky, College Bucky, College Student Bucky, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Bucky Barnes, Loss of Virginity, Poor Reader, Possessive Bucky Barnes, Protective Bucky Barnes, Rich Bucky, college!bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22045795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miamourxoxo/pseuds/miamourxoxo
Summary: You were barely getting by, struggling to balance your pre-med classes, research position, and two jobs. You were constantly overcome by stress, weariness, and anxiety. But after meeting Bucky one night at work, life begins to look up. You two develop a close relationship that is soon tested by Bucky's complicated family life, your past, and the unexpected nature of life.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 44
Kudos: 136





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Believe it or not, I wrote this a year ago. Lately, I've been flooded with images and gifs from Bucky/Sebastian Stan fan accounts on Instagram, and this caused me to return to this work yesterday. This is the first fic I've posted online, and so I welcome ALL feedback, constructive criticism, and advice on where you want the story to go. Hope you enjoy!

“Thank you, have a great evening,” you called out to the retreating backs of the customers. As soon as the door closed, you collected the tip money and scrubbed down the table. Glancing at the television above the bar, the sports channel presented the time in a miniscule box in the lower-right corner. 11:40pm. Twenty minutes left in your shift, and then home at last. You hadn’t been home since eight this morning. In that time, you had gone to the gym, showered there, met with Dr. Romanoff for a few grueling hours of research, volunteered at the hospital for five hours, followed by a quick one-hour study session crammed in before your shift at Sam’s.

Wondering if you should try to study after this, despite your exhaustion, or tuck in early to wake up refreshed for another morning of research with Dr. Romanoff, your flinched when her colleague and friend, Wanda, snuck up behind you.

“Clint has leftover brisket. He asked me if we wanted any.”

“Jesus, Wanda.” You put your hand over your heart, whipping around. The only noise in the restaurant had been Clint banging on plates in the back, coupled with the hum of the television and the sound of glasses hitting the countertop as a few men conversed at the bar.

“Sorry, Y/N,” Wanda laughed, a few strands of her reddish mane loosening from her ponytail.

“It’s okay. Thanks for letting me know, I think I’ll take him up on that offer.” Wanda hummed as you turned to face the front of the restaurant to survey empty tables. You pretended not to notice Wanda eying your frame, approving of your decision to accept the food.

“Any big plans tonight?” Wanda inquired, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall. Despite her relaxed stance, she remained alert, her eyes glancing towards her customers, a group of college students laughing over a basket of wings.

“Brianna had invited me to a frat party after this, but for obvious reasons, I won’t be attending,” you responded.

“Obvious reasons? The night is still young, are you worried about getting up early to meet with Romanoff tomorrow?” You ignored the hint of contempt in Wanda’s tone; judging from your stories, she considered Dr. Romanoff to be a pushy, pretentious academic.

“It’s not that. Knowing Brianna, she’ll want to go out after, and I can’t swing late night wings and Uber rides right now,” you muttered, stuffing your hands in your pockets. Before Wanda could reply, she was called away to her table. She sent you a look of understanding before she went, patting your shoulder in sympathy. You checked the clock again. 11:50. You felt your tiny, but cozy, futon calling your name. You must have been more tired than you had thought. After all, you were running on only a few hours of sleep after the late night study session you had pulled last night. Studying on Friday nights was never particularly enjoyable, but last night was especially unpleasant considering you had a chemistry exam on Monday.

The sound of the bell hanging above the door pulled you from your reverie. The door opened, letting in a gust of cool air. Sighing inwardly and pasting on a smile, you turned to greet the customers.

“Hi, welcome to Sam’s. Party of one?” The customer was looking down at his phone, a baseball cap hiding his visage from you, although his broad shoulders and muscular physique were evident, even underneath his coat. He looked up, his lips curving upward in a small smile. Your breath catching, you tried not to stare.

He was a good few inches taller than you, forcing you to tilt your head up. As he smiled at you, you observed his beautiful facial structure. Plump lips, bright blue eyes, and dark hair swept into a bun barely visible due to his cap.

“Yup, it’s just me,” he responded, his voice gravelly. He pocketed his phone as you grabbed a menu.

“Right this way,” You replied, forcing yourself to turn from him and continue farther into the restaurant. Seating him at a small booth, you placed the menu in front of him.

“I’ll be back in a few, let me know if you have any questions about the menu.” You quietly applauded yourself at your ability to maintain eye contact with him.

“Great. Thanks, Y/N.” His eyes strayed down to your name tag as he spoke, a soft smile painting his face. You returned the grin, only for it to fall as you turned around. Attending to the customer would extend your shift, making you lose valuable minutes of studying or sleep. Seeing that the men at the bar had left, you went over to wipe down the counter. Pietro, the bartender, nodded to you in thanks.

“Your customer’s cute,” Wanda commented, returning from her table. Her eyes were on the mystery man.

“Hm,” you said, noncommittedly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wanda asked. You looked over to the customer, his back facing you as he scanned the menu.

“Nothing, I just want to head out,” you admitted, lowering your voice. Wanda examined you for a moment, taking in the slight bags under your eyes, frizzy hair, and the way you were mindlessly shifting your weight due to the dull pain in your feet from running around all day.

“I can take him if you’d like,” Wanda offered.

“I bet you could,” you laughed. Wanda’s eyes widened, her hand coming up to her chest in fake offense. Turning, you returned to the customer. As you approached him, he was tapping out a message on his phone, a small frown etched on his face. He peered up at you as you came to a stop at the table.

“Are you ready to order, sir? Can I get you started with a drink?” The customer set his phone face down on the table, looking up with a kind smile on his face.

“Just about. I’ll get a water. I’d also like a piece of cake; do you recommend the chocolate or the vanilla?” You tapped your pen against your lips, thinking if you had tasted either.

“I’ve had the chocolate cake once, I remember it was pretty tasty. Not sure about the chocolate though,” you said apologetically.

“I would think you would have tasted the menu,” the man said, quizzical. He didn’t seem upset, more curious than anything.

“I’ve tasted more of the savory dishes than the sweet ones, to be honest. Sorry, sir.”

“No need to apologize, Y/N.” You kept your expression neutral as he referred to you by your name again. “I’ll take one slice of chocolate cake.”

“Great, that should be out soon,” you responded, taking the menu from him and submitting his order. Entering the kitchen, Clint looked up from the grill. Steam obscured his face as he flipped a few burger patties.

“Hey, I packed your brisket and placed it in the coatroom for you.”

“Thanks, Clint. That will last me a few days hopefully,” you said, leaning against the sink.

“Hm... more like a day or two,” he guessed, flipping a sizzling burger over.

“My servings aren’t as big as yours,” you replied, eyes on the ground as you started to think about what you actually had left in the fridge at home. You couldn’t go grocery shopping for another few days, but you were pretty sure you only had a few eggs, a bag of pot stickers, a pack of baby carrots, and some apples left.

Clint looked up at you when you said that, a frown settling on his face for a moment as his eyes briefly skimmed you figure as Wanda had done earlier. Despite that fall break had only lasted a week, you had returned to campus a bit lighter, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Clint and Wanda.

Clint pushed another container towards you.

“Some leftover vegetables and chicken. No one else wanted it.” Clint turned to the grill, anticipating your refusal. You sighed, but the memory of a mostly empty fridge made you pick up the box and walk to the small room which housed a bench and lockers where employees could store their personal belongings during work. Glancing at the television in the corner of the room, you checked to make sure that no more customers had entered the restaurant before placing the container in your locker next to your backpack and textbooks that couldn’t fit in your bag.

“Cake’s ready,” Clint called from the kitchen.

Taking the dish from the counter, you headed through the doorway to the attractive customer, who appeared more relaxed than before. He turned to face you as you approached him, and you almost laughed at how excited he was to see the slice of cake.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he said as you handed him the dish.

“No problem; let me know if you need anything else.”

“Actually, I noticed you were eyeing the clock earlier. Would it help if I paid the bill now rather than later?” You hesitated a moment, surprised that he had noticed.

“Well, technically I get off at twelve, but five minutes overtime won’t hurt,” you lied, knowing that you wouldn’t get paid for those five minutes.

“No, it’s alright.” The customer reached into his wallet, pulling out a few bills. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks, sir,” you said, gratefully, accepting the cash.

“Bucky,” you heard, though his voice was muffled.

“Sorry, what?” You asked.

“My name is Bucky. Hearing ‘sir’ makes me feel like a senior citizen,” he quipped. You cracked a small smile.

“Got it. Thanks, Bucky.”

Putting the cash in the register, you realized that Bucky had tipped generously. Maybe you could go grocery shopping a day or two earlier than you had anticipated. You clocked out and shrugged your coat on. Grabbing your backpack, books, and leftovers, you waved at Clint and Pietro.

“See you later, girl. Text me when you get home,” Wanda hugged you as you made your way to the door. You often walked the fifteen minutes to your apartment, despite it being pitch black outside and the chill in the air. Still, you needed to save money whenever possible, and the free campus shuttle system was often delayed or overrun by rowdy, drunk students. Besides, you always walked with a bottle of pepper spray hidden in your pocket and your key in hand.

“I will. See you.” Leaving the restaurant, you didn’t catch the stranger’s eyes following you as you were enveloped by the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some background on the reader. Plus, she meets Brock Rumlow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy!

The sound of your phone’s alarm interrupted your comfortable, dreamless sleep. Groaning inwardly, you tapped the snooze button and rolled over. When you had come home last night, you had decided to study for awhile before going to bed, despite it being twelve in the morning. Thoughts of the attractive customer at Sam’s, Bucky, during your walk home had shaken off the weariness you had been feeling, and you decided that your inability to sleep could be channeled into a productive activity: finishing your flashcards for your chemistry midterm on Monday.

Since you waitressed on the weekends, you had known that you would have limited time to put together a detailed study guide. Thus, you had done the bulk of the work during the week in the spare time you had. Now, you could spend Saturday and Sunday making flashcards and reviewing your study guide. After all, you wanted to be prepared when you met with Trip on Sunday night, one of your college friends who was also in your class.

You knew what others thought about you: You were too uptight, studious, and boring. But unlike most of the others at your college, you couldn’t fall back on your parents’ money or connections. There was no father to fund your startup, no mother who had the ear of the dean of the top medical school. Your golden ticket out of poverty was becoming a doctor. It was all you had ever wanted to do since childhood, and to get there, the first step had been to get into a top university. You had kept your head down and worked diligently in high school and had been accepted into one of the best schools in the country. You had been offered a generous scholarship that covered tuition, and your guardian, your uncle, had been expected to cover housing and food costs. However, the relationship between the two of you was “strained” (at least, that’s what you told Brianna, Trip, and Wanda) and you were left to fend for yourself when dealing with those expenses. As a result, you had two jobs, working at the school library and waitressing, and had managed to get a research position where you received a stipend. Still, you had to be extremely smart about how much you spent and saved, because your uncle had made it clear many times that he didn’t financially support you anymore.

You worked hard to ensure that you could continue to attend your university, and you studied all the time so that your grades, recommendation letters, and resume would enable you to be admitted into a top medical school. Sometimes, the strain of everything in your life threatened to come crashing down. You had served customers at Sam’s who had been rude, ignorant, and creepy. Volunteering at the hospital meant you were tasked with grunt work. Dr. Romanoff could be extremely cold and tough when supervising you. You were even putting yourself through both Spanish and Arabic classes to ensure that you would stand out from your peers. But through it all, you knew it would be worthwhile in the end, when you would have a job you love, and not have to worry constantly about money (especially when it seemed like no one else around you did).

Your alarm jolted you awake. Coming to term with the fact that it was time to actually get out of bed and start your long day, you shuffled out of bed and changed into an old t-shirt and leggings. You slipped on your ratty running shoes, plugged in your headphones, and secured your key to a hairband you wore on your wrist. Leaving the house, you grumbled as you pulled up your workout playlist, and began your run.

Exercising was extremely important to you – scratch that – necessary for you. So many things in your life had been out of your control. At a young age, your parents had been killed in a car crash, and your uncle had taken you in. He had alcoholic tendencies and trouble keeping down a job, which made microwave dinners and threadbare clothes a staple in your life. Now, your uncle only seemed to grow more psychologically unstable each time you visited home. Exams, work, and your social life always seemed to throw you for a loop, keeping you on your toes. Physical fitness was one of the few aspects of your life that you found you could control. Although you appreciated the aesthetic and physical effects on your health, you treasured the sense of control and mental clarity you gained from exercise. The school gym was free to use, and so you found yourself in the gym almost every day. On days where you didn’t want to make the trek to the gym, you went for long, therapeutic runs.

Like today. You soldiered on for six miles, before feeling the familiar ache in your feet. Returning home, you showered and got ready for the day. Wolfing down breakfast, you walked the ten minutes to Dr. Romanoff’s lab on campus, steeling yourself for a long morning.

You had applied for the position as Dr. Natasha Romanoff’s research assistant at the start of the year, despite warnings from other students and teaching assistants who claimed that she was cold, tough, and distant. But Dr. Romanoff’s field of study was aligned with your own interests, and you knew you could learn a lot from her. Besides, you had grown up on tough love. After a grueling selection process which involved two interviews, a networking session at her house, and a written exam, you were one of the students who she selected.

It hadn’t been smooth sailing. The other research assistants were upperclassmen, and so they had more knowledge of the experiments you assisted with. However, Dr. Romanoff had made it clear she wouldn’t hold your hand. She often left articles and books at your workstation with chapters she wanted you to read so that you could get caught up on research she was conducting. And when you made a mistake, instead of correcting you like she did with the other assistants, she would often ask you to offer a solution first. The social dynamics of the lab could also be awkward. Most of the other assistants were male, and while the gender divide wasn’t always evident, when Dr. Romanoff wasn’t in the lab, conversation strayed to football, hookups, and fart jokes, topics which you had no intention of discussing.

Unlocking the lab, you turned on the lights, and set your backpack down at your workstation. You often were the first to arrive and the last to leave, a fact which didn’t go unnoticed by the other undergraduate lab assistants. They shared covert glances when you stayed behind and they had started to ignore you after the first few times you had declined to get drinks with them.

Sitting down at your workstation, you read through your assignments for the day which Dr. Romanoff had compiled and had one of her senior lab assistants print out. Burying yourself in your work, you raised a hand in greeting to your colleagues as they filed in during the next half hour.

About an hour later, Dr. Romanoff made an appearance. You could tell that she had entered the lab when the gentle buzz of conversation and sound of test tubes clinking stopped. You turned around to see the scientist making her rounds, examining her subordinates’ work. Refocusing on the measurements you were taking, you continued your work until you felt Dr. Romanoff’s presence next to you. The statuesque woman leaned down, checking over your calculations. Her red curls obscured her face, but as she straightened out, you could tell she was satisfied that the numbers added up.

“I’d like to see you in my office after you finish your work,” she murmured, before making her way to her senior assistants. You ignored the snickers of the other assistants and kept your expression stoic, but you inwardly were reviewing your actions at the lab for the past few days, trying to recall if you had made any noticeable mistakes. Aside from receiving a few minor corrections, you hadn’t accidentally dropped a beaker like Jackson had done a few days before or forgotten to submit lab reports.

A few hours later, you cleaned your workstation and slung your backpack over your shoulders. You were one of the last students in the lab, and so you turned off the lights in your area. Walking down the hall towards Dr. Romanoff’s office, you prayed that she wasn’t about to let you go. Although you hadn’t remembered committing any major errors, Dr. Romanoff had always been distant from you, in comparison to the other undergraduate lab assistants, who she would occasionally crack a joke with or engage in their conversations about medical breakthroughs. Trying to calm yourself down, you knocked on Dr. Romanoff’s office door, and at her request, entered her immaculate office. You had only been in there once, when she had told you that she had selected you for a research position, and so you were so excited that you hadn’t paid attention to the contents of the office. Stacks of books, dissertations, and awards adorned the space. Taking a seat in front of the scientist, you tried to surreptitiously distinguish other well-known doctors and scientists in photos displayed behind the woman’s desk. Dr. Romanoff continued to type at her laptop for a few seconds, then looked up at you.

“Sorry about that, I’m dealing with morons.” She closed her laptop, setting it aside.

“No problem,” you said, cracking a small smile at her words. Leaning back in her seat, Dr. Romanoff observed you for a moment before cutting to the chase.

“I wanted to talk to you about the annual symposium hosted by the American Medical Research Association that takes place in two months. I’m one of the keynote speakers, so I’ll be giving a presentation. Michael, one of my senior lab assistants, is helping me prepare, but there’s more work than I had originally anticipated. I need an undergraduate lab assistant to take on some of the additional symposium work. Are you interested in stepping up?”

Speechless for a moment, you tried to find words. You had thought you were in trouble; instead, you were being rewarded.

“What would this entail?” You asked, once you managed to find your voice.

“An additional few hours during the week and extra reading.” You nodded, thinking about your already-packed schedule.

“I work, so I’ll have to look at my schedule to see if this is feasible for me,” you responded. Dr. Romanoff raised an eyebrow, caught off guard at your measured response.

“You should view this as an opportunity. I selected you because you’ve worked diligently for the past few months. Can you take some time off for the next few weeks?” She asked, her tone betraying little emotion, despite her blunt response. Your face heated up, and you looked at the floor for a moment. Shaking your head, you replied,

“No. That’s, uh, not possible. I appreciate you thinking of me, and I’ll let you know my decision as soon as possible.” Dr. Romanoff leaned back in her chair, pausing for a moment before nodding her head.

“Very well, email me as soon as you can. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Nodding, you grabbed your backpack and left her office, your thoughts jumbled. Dr. Romanoff was right, this was a great opportunity. Assisting her with a keynote speech would help you get more accustomed with her research and introduce you to new scientific material. However, you worked at the university library during the week and were paid above minimum wage. You couldn’t just take time off for a few months; that money went towards your rent and groceries.

Sighing, you took a seat at an empty table at the library and took out your lunch. Munching on your sandwich, you looked at your phone calendar, seeing if you had any available hours during the week. Seeing a few open hours on Mondays and Tuesdays, you wrestled with the idea of adding another commitment to your calendar. The sound of the chair scraping against the floor brought you out of your daze. Turning, you saw your friend, Trip, take a seat next to you and pull out some homework.

“Hey, you. What’s up?” He asked. Chatting about his weekend, the subject of Dr. Romanoff’s request came up when you spoke of the lab.

“Y/N, you should accept. Dr. Romanoff never offers undergrads that kind of responsibility,” Trip said, albeit a bit enviously. You had both applied to be research assistants, but only you had gotten the position. Trip adamantly denied feeling jealous or angry at you, but you carefully avoided discussing the lab as much as possible. Besides, he had gotten a position at another lab. You were both premed students, but he came from a long line of medical professionals. On many occasions, you had turned to Trip for advice on classes, internships, and anything else related to medicine. Deciding that he was right, you sent an email to Dr. Romanoff agreeing to the additional duties. If you had to sacrifice a few extra hours of sleep, so be it.

“My friend is stopping by in a half hour. We’ll be working on a project together. That okay?” Trip asked, his eyes glued to his phone.

“Yup. I’m just doing Arabic homework, so hopefully your presence will prevent me from having another breakdown,” you joked, taking out your textbook. Trip laughed.

“I still can’t believe you stuck with Arabic. Everyone I know who took it freshman year has dropped it.”

“Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are.” You had initially wanted to take Arabic to help distinguish yourself from other premed students. You thought it would be helpful to know, since there were so many Arabic speakers and immigrants from Arabic-speaking countries who you might interact with in a hospital. It had been difficult from the start; the sounds of letters didn’t come to you as naturally as it did for other students, and you always felt like you had less time to study for Arabic due to your science classes. After receiving a B+ after the first semester, you almost quit. You had never gotten a B+ on anything in your life, but Trip and Wanda had convinced you to continue the course. A few months later, you realized how much you loved the language, even more so than Spanish, and continued Arabic into sophomore year.

Intermediate Arabic was another beast though. There was much more grammar, which you enjoyed, to your professor’s excitement. However, there was also a lot more listening and comprehension involved, which you struggled with. You were working on a particularly difficult dictation exercise, when you were interrupted by Trip’s friend taking a seat the table.

Outfitted in a tight black t-shirt that showed off bulging biceps, a man with a dark head of hair and even darker eyes fist bumped Trip and glanced at you. You tried not to stare at his jawline.

“Hey, I’m Brock, nice to meet you.”

“I’m Y/N, nice to meet you too.” You said quickly, before looking back at your laptop. It’s not that you wanted to come off as unfriendly, but this homework was frustrating, and you weren’t in the mood to socialize. Besides, you had to be at Sam’s in a few hours, and you didn’t want to waste time.

A few minutes later, your frustration only grew as you got stuck on a long sentence. Replaying the sentence over and over until it became an undecipherable garbled mess, you pulled your earbuds out with a huff and closed your laptop. Granting yourself a study break, you took out your phone and set a timer for three minutes. Tuning into Trip and Brock’s conversation, you took out a sandwich bag you had filled with some baby carrots. The sound of you biting into a carrot made Trip pause and look at you.

“I know that face. That’s the face you make when Arabic is kicking your ass,” Trip said sympathetically.

“You speak Arabic?” Brock asked, looking up from a spreadsheet.

“Um, a little. I’m in Intermediate Arabic right now.” Brock nodded approvingly, continuing to stare at you.

“What made you interested in studying it?” Surprised at his genuine interest, you responded,

“I’m a premed student, and I want to be able to interact with as many patients as possible when I become a doctor. The language is also beautiful, so,” you shrugged, suddenly conscious of how cheesy you had just sounded, but Brock was hanging on to your every word.

“I actually spent some time in the Middle East, so I know both formal and Egyptian Arabic. I could help you out sometime, either with homework or just having a conversation in Arabic.” Brock said casually. Your eyes widened.

“Really? That would be great. I need some more practice outside the classroom,” you gushed.

“No problem. Here’s my number.” As Brock told you his digits, you ignored Trip’s teasing look.

Later that night, after you had collapsed on your bed after a long shift at Sam’s you texted Brock, asking if he was available to meet with you next week. He responded soon after, setting up a time to meet at a nearby coffee shop. You confirmed, looking forward to your meeting with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What are your thoughts? I promise Bucky will be in the next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock helps the reader with her Arabic. She sees Bucky again.

You leisurely walked across the quad, immersed in the music streaming from your phone. Humming, you left campus and walked a few blocks until you reached the quaint coffee shop you and Brock had agreed to meet at.

Walking in, you spotted Brock on his laptop right as he looked up. His eyes met yours, and you waved your hand in greeting as you took a seat in front of him.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said warmly, closing his laptop and setting it aside. “How’s your week been?” He waited a moment as you took out your Arabic textbook, folder, and notebook.

“Good, I had a chemistry exam a few days ago, but the rest of this week will be more relaxed.” Brock nodded, resting his hands on the table.

“How did the exam go?” He asked. You shifted in your seat, surprised at his interest.

“It went pretty well. A little long, but it was manageable. Are you on the premed track, too?” Brock shook his head, taking a sip from his water bottle.

“Nah. I’m actually an international relations major, but I’m taking a psychology course with Trip.” You leaned forward, intrigued by the combination of the two fields.

“What made you interested in psychology?” You asked. “I guess I just don’t associate psychology with international relations.”

“Many of my international relations classes analyze people’s decisions. I figure that knowing about the reasoning behind their decisions is important.”

“Interesting. Is the psychology class how you met Trip?” Brock chuckled, running a hand through his dark hair.

“No, I’ve actually known Trip since childhood. Our families have vacationed together in Europe for years.” You tried to neutralize your expression at the mention of Brock’s not so humble origins.

“I see. I don’t remember seeing you last year, it’s weird that we’ve only just met now.”

“Ah, I just transferred here from Columbia.” At that, you looked at your phone for a moment, doing a double take. “Shit; I have to be out of here in an hour.”

“No problem, we can table this conversation for later,” Brock said. “Do you want anything before we begin?” Brock gestured to the display near the cash register presenting a variety of pastries. You shook your head.

“I’m okay, thanks though.” For the next half hour, you reviewed case endings, a complex grammatical device that your professor often emphasized the importance of. After you and Brock had tackled a difficult sentence, he sat back in his seat, thinking over something.

“You know, case endings are pretty meaningless when you actually speak Arabic. Are you up for a conversation? I want to see how you hold your own.” Brock waited for your response, and you tried to ignore the nerves that flittered about your stomach. Although you had been learning the language for the past year and had spoken Arabic with peers and professors, the thought of speaking Arabic still made you nervous. It was a vulnerable feeling, speaking a language you had invested hours of work into, to a fluent speaker who could easily pick apart your mistakes. Taking a deep breath, you began to speak.

.مرحباً. أنا طالبة في هذه الجامعة. أدرس الطب لكنني لم أختار موضوع محدد.

_Hello. I am a student at the university. I study medicine but I haven’t chosen a major._

Smiling, Brock responded, a bit too fast for you. Your face heating up, you asked for him to repeat the sentence. He reiterated what he had said, speaking a bit slower so that you could fully understand him.

ما الموضوع الذي تريدين أن تدرسي؟

_What do you want to major in?_

For the next thirty minutes, you stumbled over a few sentences, learned new vocabulary, and practiced different verb tenses. Each time you made a mistake, Brock would gently correct you, sometime writing out a new word so that you could add it to your flashcard set.

“Wow, an hour has passed already. That felt fast,” you marveled. “Thanks again for helping me. Uh, do you charge, or-” Your throat went dry at the thought of Brock having some sort of hourly tutoring fee. You kicked yourself. You should have asked him about this prior to your meeting. Brock cut you off before you could press on.

“No charge. Don’t worry about it.” You pouted, considering how you could repay him. You missed Brock’s eyes dart down to your lips.

“I wish I could return the favor in some way.”

“Honestly, you’re helping me stay on top of my Arabic. It was getting a bit rusty.” You snorted, beginning to gather your things.

“Like I could tell. You’re _fusha_ is so crisp,” you complimented him. The two of you both moved towards the door, thanking Brock as he held the door open for you.

“Next time we meet, I should teach you some Egyptian.” You tried not to raise your eyebrows at the way Brock assumed there would be a next meeting. There was nothing wrong with that; you had learned a lot, but you hadn’t indicated to him that you wanted to meet again. You didn’t know what to think about his authoritative personality.

“That would be cool,” you remarked. “I have to run to class, but I’ll text you.”

“Alright, enjoy,” you said to the customers, before turning on your heels and briskly walking to the kitchen, where Clint was furiously whipping up a meal while simultaneously telling Wanda about the dish she was about to take out and supervising one of the sous chefs. It was a Friday night, one of the busiest nights at Sam’s. The restaurant was a popular hangout spot for college students due to the proximity to campus, decently-priced meals, and large flat screen televisions hung above the bar.

“Crazy night tonight,” Wanda intoned, balancing a few dishes. “And we’re not even halfway through shift.” Looking at the clock, you groaned, following her with dishes for another one of your tables. After handing them over, you navigated the bustling room and took the orders of a table of young men. Judging by their apparel, they were lacrosse players.

“Hello, welcome to Sam’s. Can I get you guys started on some drinks?” You asked. Writing down the different beers they ordered, you turned around, but not before hearing one of them make a crude remark about your ass. Face flushing, you quickened your stride towards the bar on the other end of the room. Leaving the order for Pietro, you were about to head back to the main room, before a voice caught you off guard.

“Hey, Y/N.”

You were so swept up with the dinner rush that you hadn’t noticed Bucky enter the restaurant and take a seat at the bar. He nursed a glass filled to the brim with a dark, murky liquid. One of his hands rested on the counter, tapping against the woodwork, while the other wasn’t visible. Unlike last weekend, he was wearing a more formal outfit. Although you couldn’t see his lower half, you guessed he was wearing dress pants and shoes to match his crisp pale blue collared shirt in a hue that matched his eyes. Pushing the thought to the back of your mind, you realized you had been staring at him for too long. Bucky’s tentative smile slowly started to disappear as each beat of silence stretched between the two of you.

“We met for a moment last weekend-” He started, and you accidentally spoke over him, scrambling to make up for the awkward pause on your end.

“Hi. Right, chocolate cake guy,” you remarked, wanting to swallow your words as soon as you uttered them. Bucky laughed at that, surprising you. It really wasn’t supposed to be funny, but it was better than him thinking you were awkward and antisocial. “No chocolate cake today, I see,” you continued, eliciting another laugh from him. Bucky shook his head, a grin etched on his face.

“Maybe next time. I actually came here directly from work, so obviously, a drink was in order,” he explained. You pondered over what kind of work he could possibly do, considering it was almost eight o’clock and most people left work between five and six.

“Work that bad?” You quipped, taking a moment to glance at your tables. None needed your immediate attention, and the manager, Arnie, was on the other side of the room, conversing with one of the old-timers. Bucky shrugged.

“Could have been better, let’s leave it at that.” He looked as if he wanted to say more but decided it against it and took a sip from his drink. You nodded, at a loss of how to continue the conversation.

“How’s your week been?” He asked you. You were perplexed by his interest but responded anyways.

“It’s been okay. I had a midterm on Monday that went well, classes are going okay, and I was promoted at my research job…” You trailed off, not wanting to ramble. But instead of looking annoying, he leaned forward, attentive to your every word.

“That’s great! What do you study?” Before you could respond, you saw one of your customers look around the room, at the same time as Pietro set the athletes’ drinks down by you.

“Thanks, Pietro. Sorry, Bucky, my customers.” You gestured to your tables, and he understood immediately.

“Of course, go ahead, Y/N.”

You took the platter of drinks to the athletes’ table, careful not to spill any on their designer wallets and iPhones lying carelessly on the table.

“Finally,” one of them grumbled. You could tell from his tone that he hadn’t made the inappropriate comment a few minutes prior.

“Sorry about the wait, guys. What can I get you?” You did your best to sound apologetic. As you took orders from the men, you inwardly assigned them different nicknames based on their exteriors. The cranky one was Freckles, followed by Buzzcut, Biceps, and Dreadlocks. When it was time to gather their menus, Buzzcut wrapped his hand around your wrist, preventing you from leaving.

“Maybe this time, you could move a bit quicker. We’re starving,” he jeered. You nodded, wordlessly, realizing that he was the one who had voiced his opinion about your ass. Grabbing his menu more forcefully than you had intended, you heard him chuckle.

“You know how I feel about girls like her. I like them sassy.”

Feeling anger bubble in the pit of your stomach, you submitted the group’s order to the kitchen, then headed out to collect dishes from another one of your tables. As you prepared the table’s bills, you felt Wanda sidle up next to you. About to crack a joke, she noticed your hunched shoulders and frowned, concerned.

“What’s wrong?” Not wanting her to worry, you made a vague reference to the rude customers.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you reassured her.

For the next fifteen minutes, thoughts of Bucky left your head as you ran back and forth between your customers. When the athletes’ food was ready, you pushed away the sense of dread forming and brought the men their meals.

“Looks delicious,” Buzzcut announced when you arrived at their table, staring at you pointedly as he made the remark. Biceps and Freckles snorted, while Dreadlocks looked uncomfortable. You ignored him and doled out their food.

“Alright, anything else I can get you guys?” You asked, once everyone was settled with their food.

“Your number,” Buzzcut stated, smirking at you. Your irritation was replaced by the urge to not laugh in his face.

“Not possible. Anything else?” You shot back, keeping your face blank. This time, it was Dreadlocks’ turn to laugh, not caring that Buzzcut was glaring at him.

“I think we’re good here,” Dreadlock said. Relieved that your interactions would now be limited to handing them their bill, you looked towards the bar, but Bucky wasn’t in his seat. Disappointed, your eyes met Pietro’s. He beckoned you over to him.

“Mystery man is in the bathroom,” he said, absentmindedly twirling the towel around in circles. He shrugged. “Thought you would want to know. Since you two seem to be on good terms.” You rolled your eyes as he wagged his eyebrows.

“I don’t know how Wanda puts up with you,” you taunted him, mentioning his sister. As you saw Bucky emerge from the bathroom, a few of your customers left, a cue for you to wipe down the table and bring their dishes back to the kitchen. Sighing, you made your way to the table and began to clean it. Leaning forward to grab a dish, Buzzcut’s voice rang out, standing out from the buzz of the television and chatter of the customers.

“That ass? Yeah, I’d totally tap it if she wasn’t such a bitch.” You clenched your fists before gathering the rest of the dishes. Pushing open the kitchen door, Wanda was at your side immediately, her face dark.

“Lily overheard what your customers said. I’m about to tell Arnie so he can kick them out.”

“Not necessary. They’re done eating anyways, I just have to hand them their bill and they’ll be out of here,” you told her. Ignoring her protests, you calculated their bill and brought it to the table. Forcing a smile, you set it down in front of them and began collecting their dishes.

“Last chance, sweetie. Give me your number and I’ll make it worth your while,” Buzzcut rasped, dangling the credit card in the air. Without missing a beat, you deftly took the card and inserted it into the card reader.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know if I can make time for you in my busy schedule.” Buzzcut looked thunderous, a vein beginning to twitch under his eye. He grabbed his wallet and threw a one dollar bill on the table.

“Your tip,” he spat. Great. A one percent tip. Buzzcut stomped towards the door, his cronies following. Dreadlocks caught your gaze, looking apologetic, and he took out a few more bills and set them on the table. Silently thanking him, you crumpled the bills and were about to head back to the kitchen, when you saw Bucky stride across the room toward Buzzcut. Gone was his friendly disposition, replaced by a look that made your blood run cold. His eyes hard, his expression was nondescript, although his balled up fists revealed seething anger. You took a step back, out of uncertainty at what was about to transpire.

Bucky reached out towards Buzzcut, and you thought for a second that he was about to hit him. Instead, he grabbed a swath of Buzzcut’s coat collar and yanked him forward. Off guard, Buzzcut yelped and caught himself before he almost tripped over his own feet. Bucky leaned forward and murmured something in Buzzcut’s ear. You weren’t within range to hear what he was saying, but Buzzcut paled, and looked towards you before Bucky grabbed his jaw and forced Buzzcut to look at him. The exchange only lasted a few seconds, but by the time Bucky had finished, Buzzcut's hands were shaking, and a sheen of sweat had appeared at his temple. He swiveled around, dragging his feet towards you, but refused to meet your eyes. He handed you a large bill, before scurrying out of the restaurant with his friends hot on his heels.

“What the fuck,” Wanda whispered. Jumping a bit, you turned to see Wanda and half the waitstaff staring at Bucky, in varying states of curiosity, dismay, and confusion. A few customers had seen the tense exchange but had begun to resume their conversations. You saw Arnie make a beeline for Bucky, and you observed Bucky instantly mask his murderous expression with an easy smile directed at Arnie.

“I’m going to – um, clean up the table,” you mumbled, still shocked by what had played out in front of you.

“Here, let me help you,” Wanda said. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw her reach for your shoulder, then think better of it. Returning for the glasses, you flinched as a hand came up to touch your elbow. Whirling around, you saw Bucky standing in front of you. Cursing your jumpiness, you watched as he quickly withdrew his hand.

“Sorry,” you breathed, your voice barely audible.

“Don’t apologize. Seriously. Those guys were assholes.” Bucky seemed to think your apology was for provoking a reaction from him, although you had meant to apologize for your overdramatic response to him touching you.

“Yeah. Thanks.” You scuffed your shoe against the floor. Bucky opened his mouth, but before he could continue, Arnie called you over.

“I have to go.” Bucky nodded, staring at your receding frame. After you had explained to Arnie what had happened, your eyes roamed the restaurant, only to see that he had left. You didn’t know if you were relieved or frustrated. You had enjoyed the conversation you two had, but the rage that had consumed him, appearing in one moment and gone within the next, was unnerving and had inexplicably reminded you of your uncle. But he and Bucky were different, right?

As you walked home that night, something nagged at you, but it wasn’t until you were lying in bed that you realized what you had failed to notice in the moment: Throughout the ordeal, Bucky had been wearing gloves, but on only one of his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lowkey loved writing the second half of this chapter. I love Protective!Bucky. What do you think Bucky said to Buzzcut?
> 
> Also, *unfortunately* my school semester is resuming this week, which means my time will be consumed by classes, my job, internship, clubs, etc. I intend to post a new chapter this upcoming weekend!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Bucky POV. Things progress between Bucky and the reader.

Bucky slammed the door shut, carelessly backed out of his parking spot, and sped towards the exit. As he turned onto the road, he turned the volume of the radio up to noise-deafening levels. A few seconds later, he pulled over to the side of the road, his metal hand squeezing the steering wheel with increasing pressure every second. As soon he could feel the foam skeleton of the wheel bend, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Continuing his deep breaths, flashes of the argument he had with his father ran through his mind in disconnected snippets. Gritting his teeth, he tried to erase the recent spat from his mind. Deciding he needed a drink, Bucky looked across the street to see a line of bars overrun by impeccably-dressed millennials who, unlike him, had gotten out of work hours ago. He started his car again, but instead of finding a parking spot, merged onto the highway and drove the thirty-minute ride to a suburb just outside the city, where he attended graduate school.

He had stumbled upon Sam’s a week ago. He was in his first semester at the business school, and he hadn’t completed his undergraduate degree there, so he was still discovering new spots on campus. Craving something sweet, he had gotten a slice of cake at the restaurant but was met with something more pleasant: a cute waitress named Y/N. Their exchange was brief, but Bucky had been attracted to her. Her eyes were kind. Maybe she’d be working tonight.

After pulling into the parking, he loosened his tie and tossed it onto the seat next to him. Stepping out of the car, he could see that the restaurant was much busier at this time of night. Turning around, he dug through his glove box until he found what he was seeking. Entering the restaurant, he pulled a glove on to conceal his hand. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with whispers or stares tonight. Making his way to the bar, his eyes darted around the restaurant until he saw you bustling around the room, carrying trays back and forth between the kitchen and main area. Settling into his seat, Bucky ordered a drink from the bartender, and kept his eyes on you as you were taking orders from a group of college athletes. His brow furrowed as one of them stared at your ass as you left them but masked his expression as you approached the bartender.

“Hey, Y/N.” He caught your attention, and you froze for a moment, looking a bit flustered. Bucky also faltered. Perhaps you didn’t remember him from last week. As he scrambled to explain himself, you spoke.

“Hi. Right, chocolate cake guy,” you said. Bucky laughed at that, not expecting the nickname. He chatted with you for a moment, and you asked him how work had been. Surprised by your interest, Bucky tempered the sparks of anger he felt when he remembered the argument he had with his father. Providing a vague answer, he asked you about your week, wanting to know more about you than just your name. You were surprised but had answered. Before he could ask what you studied, you had to tend to your customers. Bucky stared after you for a moment, then turned to the television. Half of him paid attention to the football game while texting his best friend, Steve. He was suddenly drawn out of his reverie by an obnoxious voice. “That ass? Yeah, I’d totally tap it if she wasn’t such a bitch.”

Sitting up, Bucky looked in the direction of where the voice had come from. He saw a burly athlete with a tragic haircut staring at you from a few tables over. His face seemed to be stuck in a perpetual sneer, and Bucky observed his demeanor as his cronies chuckled. Your face was flushed, your back hunched. You clearly looked uncomfortable but continued to clean the table and brought the dishes to the kitchen. Quickly concluding that the unfortunate-looking man was the source of the comment, Bucky felt familiar tendrils of rage shoot up. He had left work in a shitty mood, and so his tolerance level for this kind of bullshit was significantly lower than it typically was. _Don’t get involved_ , his psyche told him, but he could feel his hand start to cramp up from the tense grip he had on his glass. Craning his neck, Bucky caught you whispering to the same waitress you had been laughing with last week. Except this time, the other waitress was grim, staring daggers at the table of athletes. You shook your head, then went to their table to hand them the bill. _Stand down, Bucky_. Y/N clearly didn’t want to get her friend involved, meaning that she was planning to handle the assholes on her own. Thus, he should respect what you wanted and not cause a scene. But when he saw the man throw a dirty one dollar bill on your table, any semblance of self-restraint disappeared.

Before he could stop himself, Bucky stormed across the restaurant. Grabbing the collar of the man, he dragged the man towards him, ignoring the other’s yelp. In a low voice, he muttered,

“Touch her and I’ll kill you.” The man looked at you, but Bucky’s hand clenched the other’s cheek and wrenched it so that he could maintain eye contact with the man, who was now struggling to regain his balance. A whine escaped from his mouth.

“Tip her generously and get out of here.” Bucky loosened his grip on the man and watched him hand you a tip before running out of the restaurant. Bucky felt satisfied for a second, before realizing that half the restaurant had witnessed the encounter. Shaking off the stares, he quickly explained what happened to the manager. After speaking with him, he cautiously approached you. Your back was turned to him as you gathered the dirty dishes with the waitress you were friendly with. Not knowing what to say, Bucky touched your elbow gently. He misjudged the pressure he put on you, since you jumped, spinning around to face him. You apologized in a small voice; for what, Bucky wasn’t sure. Perhaps you blamed yourself for causing the commotion.

“Don’t apologize. Seriously. Those guys were assholes,” Bucky pronounced. You nodded, looking down at the floor. Your shoulders were hunched, just as they had been when the man had harassed you. Bucky bit the inside of his cheek, unsure as to what to say or do to make you feel better. He didn’t like the nagging sensation that he had caused you to feel uncomfortable around him, when only earlier that night you had started to tell him more about yourself. Seeing your manager whisk you off, he felt out of place as customers turned their attention towards their food and waitstaff began to walk around him. Returning to the bar, Bucky paid his bill and exited Sam’s.

As he cruised down the highway, the lights at the edge of the road lit up his hands set on the wheel. Looking at them, he flexed his gloved hand, and realized that the tension that had built up in it had subsided.

The next few days passed quickly. As always, you were preoccupied with shifts at Sam’s, your increased workload at Dr. Romanoff’s lab, and homework. You actively suppressed the memories from Friday night: the harassment – which, as a young woman, you were used to, although the fact that it had happened at work, in such a public environment, had thrown you off – as well as the confrontation between Bucky and Buzzcut. You couldn’t fathom why Bucky had gotten involved, besides the possibility that he was a Good Samaritan and felt bad for you.

It was Thursday, and you were in the student center with Trip and Brock. You were taking a quick break from the dry readings you had been assigned for the healthcare elective you were taking. You and Trip were laughing over something when Brock interjected.

“Hey, did you guys see this? There’s a free concert at The Rockhouse this Saturday.” Trip snagged Brock’s phone, surveying the Facebook event.

“Looks interesting. And look, girls drink free,” Trip remarked, winking at you. You ignored him. He knew you didn’t drink alcohol, a characteristic that deeply offended him. He was always trying to get you to try a sip of his drink at the few social events you attended with him.

“You should come, Y/N,” Brock said, surprising you as you dug through your backpack for a snack. You had assumed Brock had mentioned the concert as an activity that he and Trip would do. After all, he and Trip were close friends, and you had only known Brock for a week.

“Oh, I can’t. I work Saturday nights,” you mumbled, focusing your attention on peeling your orange. You didn’t typically go out and being around drunk people could put you on edge.

“No problem,” Brock replied easily, looking back down at his phone. Trip glanced at his friend, seeing him hide his disappointment.

“Well you get out at eleven, right? Concert’s at twelve. Go home, change, and I can pick you up on the way,” Trip said. You looked at Trip sharply, who shrugged. “It will be fun. When was the last time you had fun?” He sang, nudging you. You sighed, setting down your orange for a second. Although you didn’t like going out, you hadn’t gone out with friends in a while. What had it been, almost two months? You and Brianna had gone to a party during the first week of classes, but that had been it. Parties bored you, since you didn’t care for the music or alcohol, and they could set off your anxiety when you were surrounded by jostling students. But this was a concert – it would have a (hopefully) different vibe than a dingy college party, and you’d be with Trip, who was more aware of your discomfort at parties than Brianna.

“Okay, I’ll go,” you sighed. Examining your homework, you missed Brock’s broad smile.

An hour later, you left the student center to get to your class across campus. Eyes down and earbuds in, you languidly walked, feeling satisfied that your steps were matching the beat of your music. Passing an on-campus parking lot, you faintly heard your name called. Taking an earbud out and turning, you saw Bucky step out of a shiny Range Rover. Swallowing, you took out your other earbud, but stayed where you were. It was strange seeing him outside of Sam’s. In your head, he had only existed in that environment. Now, he seemed much more real.

“Hey, Y/N. How are you?” Bucky asked smoothly, gracefully locking his car while slinging a backpack over his shoulder. As he walked towards you, he stuffed one of his hands in his pocket.

“I’m okay. I didn’t know you were a student here,” you responded, haltingly. Seeing him sparked memories of what had happened last weekend, something you desperately wanted to forget. The whole situation had made you feel embarrassed. You knew it wasn’t your fault, but some part of you felt responsible for even attracting that type of attention.

“I’m in the business school. Listen, I’m glad I ran into you. I want to apologize for my behavior last week,” Bucky said, ducking his head for a moment, as if he was giving you privacy as you reacted to his words. It took you a moment to process what he had said. He was a student at the school too. You tucked that piece of information away to consider later. Even more pressing was his apology - it was the last thing you had expected. You were mystified as to what to say, and you fidgeted with your earbud cords.

“You really don’t need to apologize. Like you said, they were assholes,” you finally responded, trying to smile, although it didn’t meet your eyes. Bucky looked you over, looking unconvinced.

“Still, I’m sorry if my response was a little…volatile.” At that, Bucky averted his eyes.  
“To make it up to you, can I buy you a cup of coffee?” You almost did a double take but caught yourself before you could visibly react. Bucky anticipated a response from you, but all you could muster up was,

“Um…what?”

Not expecting your reaction, Bucky looked even more uncomfortable, although he tried to remain casual.

“I thought it would be nice for you to get a pick me up, since it seems like you’re constantly busy. Plus, this is my first semester here, so I’m still trying to meet people,” Bucky explained, nonchalantly. That made sense. He was new to this area; it was only natural he was trying to make friends. Although why he was interested in you was beyond you. It would just be a coffee chat. Harmless.

“Oh, yeah, no problem. I remember how difficult it was to get to know people when I first got here,” you murmured. Relief painted Bucky’s face for a moment, quickly replaced by a cheerful smile.

“Great, what’s your number?” As you told him, you realized this was the second guy you were giving your number to in a week. Huh, funny how that worked out.

“Cool. I have to go to class, so…” You trailed off.

“I’ll text you to figure out a time,” Bucky offered, beaming. You paused for a moment to admire the crinkles that formed at the corners of his eyes. You nodded.

“Okay, sounds good. See you later.”

Trudging off to your lab, you replayed your interaction with Bucky over and over in your head, groaning at your awkwardness. Entering the science building, you frowned at your preoccupation with him. Bucky was just a customer at Sam’s, although perhaps he would be upgraded to an acquaintance after meeting him for coffee. Still, you couldn’t deny that he was attractive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! First week of classes/my internship/my job hit me hard, but I will try my very best to post another chapter during this long weekend. Please leave comments, reactions, and suggestions!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader goes to a concert with Trip and Brock. Brock makes a move.

That night, Bucky texted you. It was eleven, and you were trying to get to bed earlier than normal after returning from a meeting of the university’s pre-medical society you were a part of. You had to get up at six tomorrow to get a workout in before heading to Dr. Romanoff’s lab at eight. You were in the middle of listening to a daily news podcast, texting Brianna to ask her what to wear on Saturday and washing your face when your phone buzzed. Thinking it was a text back from Brianna, you ignored it in favor of rinsing off your cleanser, then dabbed on your toner. Your budget was tight, but you were allowed a few luxuries, right? At least that’s what you told yourself when you purchased your skincare products.

Picking up your phone, you almost dropped it when you saw the message:

"Hey Y/N. It's Bucky, aka chocolate cake guy :)"

You ignored the flutter in your chest when you saw the smiley face. After you had entered class earlier that afternoon, you had been so caught up with the lab, cooking dinner afterwards, and your club meeting that you hadn’t mulled over your conversation with Bucky since your initial freak-out. Part of you didn’t want to respond right away; texting attractive men wasn’t your forte. However, you also didn’t want to leave Bucky waiting overnight. That seemed rude. Tapping back a response, you threw your cotton balls away and applied moisturizer before exiting the bathroom and walking through the kitchen to get to your room. Your room was in the basement, accessible through the small door wedged between the back door and kitchen.

Living off campus was cheaper than living in university housing, especially if you could find multiple roommates. After spending freshman year in a tiny, overpriced dorm room, you had found this house through a mutual friend of Brianna’s. Six other women lived in the house, all students at the university. They shared bedrooms upstairs, and to further reduce rent, they had transformed the modest basement into a bedroom. Although your room was small, it was certainly cozy. It managed to fit a futon, desk, dresser, and a small bean bag chair that you lounged in during the rare times you found yourself with free time. There was no closet, so you had purchased a clothing rack that you had pushed up against one of the walls. The room was a makeshift space, but you were used to living in tight spaces. Your room at home was even smaller, and your housemates weren’t too bad; they threw the occasional party or two, but for the most part, they weren’t at home when you were and if they were, they were quiet.

Reaching the bottom step, you passed the washer and dryer and moved a curtain aside to reveal your bedroom. With the help of Brianna, you had installed it to give yourself a modicum of privacy while your housemates were doing their laundry. You pulled your futon from the wall, and the back of it dropped to form a small, twin sized bed. Your feet almost touched your desk chair, and when you charged your phone on the dresser, your hand often brushed the clothes hanging on the rack, but it was home. Snuggling underneath your comforter, you double checked to make sure your alarm was on, only to see a new message from Bucky.

"I'm on campus Mon/Wed, but I'm also available Sat morning. Which day works best for you?"

It was nice of him to leave the day up to you. You responded that you worked Saturday and Sunday mornings, but could meet up on Monday before your first class at 9am. Setting your phone down, you turned on your side, getting some much-needed rest.

The back door slammed behind you as you hurried into your bedroom, tossed your backpack on your desk, and undressed. You had approximately twenty minutes to get ready for the concert tonight at The Rockhouse, and all you wanted to do was curl up in your bed. Still, you had a nervous energy that was keeping you alert, a feeling you hadn’t felt in awhile.

After stepping out of the shower, you dressed in the outfit Brianna had suggested: an off the shoulder top, jeans, and platform boots that she lent you. Pulling on your bomber jacket that you had splurged on last winter, you checked your phone to see that Trip had texted you saying he was ten minutes away.

Looking at your hair, you sighed and let it out of its bun. If it was up to you, you would wear your hair in a bun everyday. In fact, you often did so, ignoring Brianna’s warning that it damaged your hair. It was more practical to wear it up due to your time in science classes and Dr. Romanoff’s lab, and that had led you to maintain the hairstyle even on days you didn’t need to pull it up.

You clipped some baby hairs back, then transferred your wallet, keys, chapstick, and gum to your purse. Moisturizing one last time, you took your phone off its charger and left the house, hurrying to get into Trip’s BMW parked on the corner. It was frigid outside, and your bomber didn’t do much to insulate you from the cold.

“Hey,” Trip said, surveying you for a moment before pulling out on the suburban street. “It’s nice to see you out of your Sam’s shirt,” he mused, before turning up the music up on his phone. Rolling your eyes but letting a smile show, the two of you made small talk during the ten minute ride to the venue. 

The Rockhouse was a mix of a restaurant, bar, and music hall. Oftentimes, it would host university events like poetry slams, trivia nights, or comedy shows. Concerts happened about once a month, but you had never been because there was an entrance fee or it conflicted with your work schedule.

Pulling up, you saw young adults streaming towards the doors. Feeling anxiety settle in the pit of your stomach, your grip tightened on your purse strap. As if reading your mind, Trip said,

“Brock got a table in the back where the crowd has thinned out.” You nodded, before bracing yourself for the cold. Entering The Rockhouse, you followed Trip towards the back of the music hall, where there were booths and high tables for people who wanted to eat during the performance. The hall could fit about seventy-five students, the second floor, almost fifty. Despite the relatively small space, you could hardly hear Trip as he beckoned you towards the back of the venue. Weaving around people, Trip led you to a quieter corner of the restaurant. You spotted Brock leaning against one of the many high tables scattered around the room. He was outfitted in a tight black shirt that showed off his defined, bulky biceps, dark wash jeans, and black sneakers. He was conversing with a few students you didn’t recognize, until he saw Trip emerge from the mass of young adults mingling and drinking.

“Hey guys,” Brock greeted you two, a warm smile on his face. He pulled Trip into a one armed hug, then turned to you. You gave a half wave, about to sit in one of the barstools, when Brock reached out and pulled one out for you. Slightly surprised by the polite gesture, you thanked him and sat down. Taking off your jacket, you hung it on the back of your seat. The venue was beginning to fill, and the number of people was slowly causing the temperature to rise.

“I’ll get drinks! What do you guys want?” Trip asked you and Brock. As he did so, Brock’s eyes flitted over you, his eyes resting on your bare shoulders, before his glance met Trip’s. Ordering a beer, Brock turned to you.

“Do you want any food? I know you just got off of work, so I didn’t know if you were hungry.” Your stomach ached for food, but an overpriced basket of fries was out of the question. Sensing your indecisiveness, he added, “I wouldn’t mind splitting an appetizer.” You quickly scanned the menu, then suggested the sweet potato fries. Brock nodded in agreement, and Trip disappeared into the crowd.

Realizing that you were now alone with Brock, you contemplated what type of small talk to make. Ask more about his major? It was a Saturday night, that was probably the last thing on his mind. You could ask about his upbringing, but that could be too personal. After all, you had only known him for a week.

“So,” Brock’s voice snapped you from your overanalysis of appropriate small talk. “Have you seen this band before?”

“No, although I probably should have done some research before tonight,” you admitted, crossing your arms and leaning forward. At that, Brock let out a bark of laughter.

“They’re sort of a mix between alternative and rock. What’s cool about them is that they reserve the last half hour for covers, but they make the audience choose songs from before the 2000s. My favorite cover of theirs is Fat-Bottomed Girls-”

“Oh, by Queen. I love that song,” you interjected. Brock gave you a strange look.

“You listen to Queen? I would’ve pegged you as a pop girl.” The glance you shot back at him made him chuckle.

“I mean, yeah, I like pop when working out. But I really like older songs. Michael Jackson, Queen, ABBA. I can probably name thirty ABBA songs,” you confessed, letting out a smile as you thought of your favorite band. One of your earliest memories was your mother singing “My Love, My Life” to you. Looking down at your hands, you willed yourself not to think of your late mother.

“ABBA? The Dutch band from the seventies?” Brock mused.

“Swedish,” you corrected him. Brock held up his hands in apology.

“My mistake. They have some catchy songs. I’ll have to remember that your talent is naming their songs. That’s a party trick I have to see.” You nodded, although you doubted the opportunity would ever present itself. “You said you listen to pop when you workout? Do you go to the on-campus gym, or…” Brock trailed off, interested. You sat up a bit, nodding with more enthusiasm.

“Yeah, I use the on-campus gym. I typically use the treadmills or stairmasters there and lift weights afterwards. I’ve been trying to incorporate more HIIT into my workouts though, so I try to do a bodyweight cardio session once a week. And I go on runs when I’m too busy to go to the gym or need to clear my head,” you rambled, before blushing a bit. Brock observed you, silently admiring your interest in exercise. He didn’t meet many girls who had intense workout regimes.

“Nice, it sounds like you do a lot. I’m trying to increase my endurance, so maybe one of these days you can take me on a run,” he said. You didn’t know how to respond to that, but he continued. “Anyways, I love weightlifting.”

“I can tell,” you commented, before you could stop yourself. Brock raised an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“Um, your arms. They’re…very toned,” you choked out, wanting to slam your head against a wall for being so awkward. But instead of being put off by what you said, Brock released a loud laugh. You felt your face heat up, but didn’t know if it was from the uncomfortable exchange or the temperature of the room.

“Thanks, I appreciate that.” Before you could sputter out a response, Trip returned with the food. A few minutes later, the front lights dimmed, and the audience cheered as the lead singer stepped onto the stage. After he introduced the band, they launched into their first song. A few students knew the lyrics, but most of the audience was happy to move their hands or start dancing in small groups. You were pleasantly surprised by how much you enjoyed the band. Rock wasn’t your go-to genre, but the band’s songs and performance were entertaining.

Since you were seated in the back, you were able to speak to Trip and Brock, albeit with raised voices. Relying on Trip to continue the conversation, you munched on your fries, often adding a comment here and there. A few times, your hand brushed against Brock’s when you reached for a fry.

Finishing the fries, you excused yourself to use the bathroom and wash your hands. Soon after you returned, the band started taking suggestions for covers, and Brock excused himself to go sign the form next to the stage. Watching his retreating form, you turned to see Trip looking at you, a smirk on his face.

“What?” You demanded. Trip shook his head, taking a sip from his drink.

“Nothing.” You were about to call him out on his lie when the band launched into a catchy Queen song. The audience erupted in cheers, and many of the students near you started to dance.

“Let’s dance,” you shouted over the music at Trip. He was startled for a moment, but quickly assented. You were generally a quiet, introverted person, but there were a few activites that you threw yourself into – dancing being one of them. You had inherited a sense of rhythm and gracefulness from your father, which you now thanked as you moved seamlessly among students who had significantly more trouble identifying the beat of the song and, as a result, were moving their limbs stiffly.

As you and Trip danced next to each other, you let your eyes close for a moment, enjoying the moment. You felt your stress dissipate and your social anxiety fade away as you lost yourself in the songs. Letting out a woop when the band moved on to a Hall & Oates song, you pulled Trip closer to you as the crowd thickened around you.

Somehow, Brock was able to find you two, although his confident aura had been replaced by an uneasy smile. You shot Trip a questioning look.

“Brock has never liked dancing,” Trip explained to you, trying to speak loud enough so that you could hear him above the crowd. Brock must have overheard you two.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” he confided, swaying awkwardly.

“That’s okay,” you reassured him. “Here, just find the beat.” You swayed your hips to the beat to demonstrate. “And then, just lift a hand and hit that beat.” Brock’s eyes stayed on your hips for a beat longer than you had expected. Unsure, he lifted a hand and tried to follow your instructions. He did look better than he did only a minute before, but he still looked uncomfortable.

“It’s all about confidence, Brock. Pretend like you’re the best dancer in this room, hell, pretend you’re the only one in the room,” you yelled over the music. For the next few songs, you watched Brock become more relaxed with every passing song. You smiled in satisfaction when he started moving more smoothly.

All too soon, the band started on their last song. Hearing the first few chords of “Mamma Mia,” your head shot up to look at the band in astonishment.

“Looks like my recommendation barely made it on the set list.” Brock murmured in your ear. You jumped a bit, not noticing that he had snuck up on you. You looked for Trip, and spotted him dancing with a girl.

Laughing nervously, you took a step away from Brock to give yourself some room to breathe.

“Great choice,” you said, interrupted by Trip waltzing up to you two with a lanky blonde.

“Let’s dance!” He yelled, slurring his words a bit. Cringing at his intoxication, you acquiesced. Suddenly, you found your hand in Brock’s, and he twirled you during the final beats of the music. Before you could process what had happened, the band finished, and Brock let you go. Applauding them, you creeped closer to Trip, who was talking up the blonde.

“Sorry about my friend,” Brock said to the girl. “Trip, it’s time to go,” he commanded. Volunteering to get your jackets, you met Brock by the door, where Trip was leaning next to him, spouting jibberish.

“How did he get so wasted? I swear he wasn’t drinking that much,” you asked, confused.

“He downed a few shots when you went to the bathroom,” Brock explained. You frowned a bit, trying to remember what the tab had been. You didn’t recall seeing those shots accounted for on the bill. “Anyways, he’s clearly too drunk to drive himself home. I’ll call him an Uber, and I can drive you home,” Brock said briskly, already opening the Uber app. You stood up straighter at that, not sure if you wanted to be in a car alone with him.

“It’s okay, I can Uber home and you can drive Trip back,” you reassured him, unlocking your phone. Before you could call an Uber, Brock gently put his hand on your phone.

“I don’t like the thought of you calling an Uber so late. It’s almost two.” With a start, you realized that he was right. “Besides, he told me earlier today that I could leave his car parked here in case this happened. I’ll text his roommate and make sure he gets into his apartment.” You slowly nodded, still unsure about the sudden change in plans. Still, it was probably safer to get a ride from Brock than take an Uber home alone. You couldn’t shake the undecipherable feeling you felt when your hand was in his, but you pushed that thought out of your mind for now.

Making sure Trip had his phone, keys, and wallet, you and Brock walked outside to wait for Trip’s Uber. You two didn’t say much; most of your talking was to answer Trip’s incessant questions. You watched as Brock got Trip in the car, then turned to you, a pleasant smile etched on his face.

“Shall we?” He led you a few feet away to a dark Mercedez, and you thanked him when he opened the door for you.

Getting in the car, you rubbed your hands together in an effort to shake off the bite of the cold. You hardly registered the fancy interior; you could feel your late night catching up to you, so you just wanted to get home and throw yourself in bed.

“There’s a button on your right to warm up your seat,” Brock noted, turning the radio down so that you could hear him better. You stayed silent as he pulled out of the lot, only piping up when he asked for your address. You were mentally exhausted from the long day you had, and you didn’t have it in you to initiate a conversation.

“I’m happy you enjoyed the concert,” Brock mentioned, turning onto a side street near your house.

“Thanks for asking me if I wanted to come. I had fun,” you said, keeping your eyes focused on the road. You thought you saw Brock stare at you for a moment before facing the road. A few minutes later, he pulled up to your house.

“Have a good night. Text me if you want to review Arabic this week,” Brock said, facing you. You nodded, thanking him again for the ride. Getting out of his car, you felt the glare of the headlights on your back as he watched to make sure you got into your house safely. You waved at him as you opened the front door.

Despite your drowsiness only twenty minutes prior, you couldn’t sleep. Turning restlessly in your bed, your mind kept replaying the moment when Brock took your hand. You didn’t know what to make of the gesture or how to feel. It was possible that you were overthinking the whole thing; Brock was probably being friendly. But what if he wasn’t? What if that was him testing the waters and seeing how you would react to an intimate interaction?

After a few more minutes contemplating what had happened, you felt annoyance at yourself creep up. This was ridiculous. You were getting hung up over a two second encounter with a man you had met a week ago. Brock was being friendly, that was it. Having come to this conclusion, you tried to sleep, but it was in vain. Your thoughts had turned to coffee with Bucky, which you two had scheduled for this Monday. You wondered what you two would talk about and hoped you didn’t come off as gawky or dull.

Grumbling, you got out of bed, and picked up a stack of homework waiting for you on your desk. Might as well put your energy to good use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what do you think of Brock? Do you think the reader will fall for his charms or gravitate towards Bucky?
> 
> Leave reactions, comments, and suggestions below!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited moment: Bucky and the reader get coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy! I welcome ALL feedback, constructive criticism, and advice on where you want the story to go.

Wispy trails of smoke emanated from your lips as your hurried to the coffee shop near campus, almost tripping over a crack in the sidewalk as you readjusted the textbooks that you hadn’t been able to squeeze into your backpack. Michael, Dr. Romanoff’s lab assistant, had emailed you this morning, needing you to bring the books to the lab that afternoon, and the only time that you could pick them up was this morning. Already on your way to meet Bucky, you had to divert your trip and stop at the university library, much to your annoyance. You hated last-minute changes to your schedule, and you hated being late.

Especially to this coffee…thing. You refused to call it a date. The night before, you had spent longer than you cared to admit scrolling the internet (cough, WikiHow and Reddit) trying to decipher if this was a date, a meeting, or something else. After twenty minutes of research, you had ended up even more confused. This morning, while pondering over what to wear, you had concluded that this was a platonic meeting with a potential friend. Telling yourself this had helped you shake off some of your nerves (and pick an outfit). You didn’t even know why you were nervous; you had interacted with Bucky before, and you knew how friendly he was. Perhaps it was because he was very attractive, but you pushed the thought of this out of your head when you approached the door to the coffee shop. 

Struggling to get a grip on the handle, you stumbled inside. At the same time, your shoulder hit a student exiting, and the collision caused you to lose hold of your books. The books slammed against the floor with a deafening thud, causing one of the baristas to jump and spill a cup of coffee. Customers were pulled out of their morning podcast reverie, taking out airpods to look at you as you sunk to the floor to pick the books up, embarrassed by the spectacle you had made of yourself. Reaching to grab one of the books, a hand offered it to you. 

“Thanks,” you mumbled, not looking up. With any luck, Bucky hadn’t arrived yet or was in the bathroom.

“No problem.” The voice of the kind stranger made you whip your head up. Bucky balanced on one knee, his hand outstretched, ready to help you get up. Not expecting to see him, you fumbled with the book, and it would have tumbled back onto the floor had Bucky not deftly caught it. Mortified, you slowly stood up, ignoring Bucky’s hand.

“Maybe I should just keep this for now to ensure this doesn’t go through any more rough treatment,” Bucky joked. Your lips lifted into a half-smile, though you were still entirely too conscious of what a fool you had just made of yourself.

“Hey Bucky,” you greeted him, shifting to your other foot to balance the books.

“Hey, Y/N. Here, let me help you with that.” Before you could protest, Bucky swiped a few books.

“Thanks. And sorry for being late; I had to pick these up for the lab I work for and this morning was the only time I could get them.”

“No problem,” Bucky shrugged. “What can I get you?” His eyes strayed to the menu posted above the baristas’ heads. “My friend told me they have pretty tasty breakfast sandwiches here,” he remarked, maneuvering himself so that they were standing in the line of students and young professionals.

“Oh, I’m okay. Thanks though,” you said automatically. You almost never spent money eating out, and that included at overpriced coffee shops. When you did go out and opted not to purchase food, you constantly had to turn down Trip and Brianna’s innocuous offers to pay for a meal. Their generosity made you uncomfortable.

At that moment, your stomach didn’t seem to agree with your refusal. Letting out an unusually loud growl, your hand flew to your stomach, as if the motion would prevent it from happening again. You hoped that Bucky hadn’t heard. You peaked at him; he hadn’t reacted.

“I really don’t mind at all,” he continued, pulling out his wallet as the two of you approached the counter. Placing his order, he looked at you as he was about to pay.

“A black coffee for me, please,” you said softly.

“And a breakfast sandwich. We can split it if you get hungry,” Bucky said, looking at you when he ended the sentence. 

Although there had been a line at the cash register, most customers were grabbing coffee and heading to class or work. The shop was a block away from a bus station, where many took the bus to get to the train station and commute into the city from there. Thus, you and Bucky had your pick of the tables. Bucky led you to a corner of the shop, where it was quieter and far away from the cold air that surrounded the door.

Sitting down, you finally rested your aching arms, while giving Bucky a discreet once-over. He was wearing a maroon cableknit turtleneck sweater to combat the frigid weather outside, paired with dark jeans and brown loafers. His backpack and coat were placed neatly on the chair next to him. He looked really nice.

Your eyes darted from him to the coffee in front of you as Bucky settled into his seat. Taking a sip, you relaxed as the warmness of the coffee washed over you.

“I take it your morning’s been a little crazy?” Bucky asked, stirring his tea. You nodded, suddenly feeling shy about divulging information about the mess that was your life. 

“How about yours?” You questioned, wanting to pull the focus off of you. 

“Definitely didn’t involve having to lug half the library across campus,” Bucky quipped. Feeling a little more relaxed due to the coffee coursing through your veins, you revealed a genuine smile. “I actually had to hop on a conference call pretty early this morning, and since I was up after the call, I decided to get my workout session done for the day. It was nice to feel like I had gotten up early until I hit morning traffic getting out of the city.” Before you could respond, Bucky’s phone chirped. Without missing a beat, he silenced it, before taking a sip of his tea.

“A conference call? How early could that have been?” You inquired, slightly confused, since it was only eight-fifteen in the morning.

“Five,” Bucky admitted, laughing at your horrified expression. “It was with Germany. My father wanted me to sit in on a meeting.” At the word father, you noticed his eyes flit down to stare at the table before lifting to meet your gaze.

“Oh,” you said, not comprehending what his father had to do with the meeting.

“I work at my father’s company. He wanted me in the meeting to see what a meeting among investors looks like,” Bucky clarified, noticing your expression of confusion.

“What type of work does he do?” You asked. “Sounds important if you were talking to Germany,” you commented, resting your head on your elbow. Bucky laughed at your reiteration of his clunky wording, then stared at you for a moment, as if he couldn’t believe that you were interested.

“He works in real estate,” he answered slowly, as if reluctant to divulge the information. You nodded, as if that meant something to you. As a biology major and premed student, you didn’t know much about careers in business.

“Enough about my boring life,” Bucky announced after he took another sip of his tea. “What do you study?” 

“Biology. I’m on the premed track,” you explained.

“Wow. And all this time I thought you were a graduate student,” Bucky reflected, a small smile tugging on his lips. You smiled politely at that, not knowing how to respond. “So I assume you want to become a doctor?” 

You nodded without hesitation.

“What made you interested in becoming a doctor? Are your parents doctors?” You averted your eyes at the mention of your parents. Coming to college, you had been unprepared for your peers’ innocent questions about them. Everyone in your small town had known about the accident. Even after a year here, you were still figuring out the most painless ways to circumvent questions and comments from people who assumed your parents were alive. Your close friends – Wanda, Trip, and Brianna – knew, but it wasn’t information you readily volunteered. 

“No. I just want to help people, and I figure that the best way I can do that is by practicing medicine,” you said. Bucky nodded at that. You inwardly cringed at your generic answer, but you hoped to delay the inevitable moment when you would have to tell him about your parents.

You had decided that you would become a doctor the day your parents died. The mixture of fear and helplessness that you had felt during your parents’ surgery was something you had hoped you would never feel again. Although you knew that being a doctor involved extreme uncertainty, at least doctors had a degree of control over their patients’ outcomes in comparison to distraught loved ones pacing in waiting rooms. 

“Here, have some of the sandwich. It’s pretty tasty,” Bucky offered, pulling you out of your thoughts. He cut the bagel in half to reveal piping hot cheese, scrambled eggs, and ham, and your mouth watered in response. Taking one of the halves, you took a bite and relished the flavorful bagel. 

“So you mentioned traffic this morning – do you live in the city?” You asked after a period of silence in which you both started to devour the sandwich.

“Yup. My father’s company is there where I work a few days a week. It just made sense to live there as opposed to here.” There’s an edge to Bucky’s voice, barely detectable but there. You wonder if he had originally wanted to live closer to campus.

“Still, you live in New York City, the most exciting city in the country. I’m jealous,” you pronounced, trying to lighten him up. It was partly true. In high school, kids would often take the train into the city to go to concerts, clubs, or sports games. Your uncle rarely let you out of the house unless it was for school or work. And even if he did, you wouldn’t have been able to pay for the pricey weekend trips. In college, you had allowed Trip and Brianna to drag you into the city on the few occasions you had saved up enough money to handle the exorbitant prices that characterized the city. It was overwhelming at first; you had felt so small and unimportant. But you had realized after the first trip that you liked feeling that way. The moment that attention was on you was when it became painfully obvious how much of a screwup you could be.

“You mentioned that you work at a lab, what’s that like?” Bucky asked, draining the remainder of his tea. You rambled at first, speaking about how much you liked your tasks and how Dr. Romanoff’s research projects aligned with your interest in the psychological and physical effects of traumatic injuries on children. After a minute, you faltered when you realized how geeky you sounded. 

“No, keep talking. Your work sounds fascinating,” Bucky urged, finishing the last of his bagel. You stuttered for a moment, surprised by his interest. Before you could speak, your phone chimed. You had almost thought it was Bucky’s, before you realized he had silenced it. Glancing at your screen, you saw that Michael had emailed you. You swiped to see the email; it could be urgent.

“Give me one second,” you said, opening the email. The senior assistant requested that you drop the books off as soon as possible, which would have to be within the next ten minutes if you wanted to get to your class on time. 

“Shit,” you muttered, standing up and tossing your coffee cup in the trash can a few feet from you. Gathering your books into a pile, you swung your coat on and looked up to see Bucky looking confused at your hasty preparation to leave.

“The lab needs these books, like now,” you explained, tripping over your words.

“I can help you carry them-”

“I’m good, thanks though. And thanks for the coffee, I’ll see you…” You trailed off, suddenly unsure when and where you’d see him again. 

“I’ll probably be at Sam’s later this weekend, so I may see you,” Bucky said, standing up. “Here, let me get the door.” Thanking him for what felt like the tenth time, you managed to wave at him as you stepped outside.

Hurrying to the lab, you tried not to think of the warm smile he had shown when you had waved at him. How he had turned off his phone alerts so that he could focus on the conversation. He had even paid for your breakfast… I’m sure he does that for his other friends, you reasoned. Wait, were you friends? Did a few conversations and a forty-five minute coffee date – no, meeting – mean that you two were friends? 

Lost in thought, you ignored your phone when it beeped, but the second time it happened, you pulled it out to see that you had an incoming call from your bank. Quizzical about the nature of the call, you picked up, barely managing to balance your books on your arms as you walked through the university’s front gates.

“Hello?” 

“Hello, Y/N. This is Northriver Community Bank. We’ve noticed some unusual account activity in the past twenty-four hours.” Reeling, you stopped at a nearby bench and dropped the books on it.

“Excuse me? What kind of activity?” You asked, feeling disconcerted at the professional, almost robotic tone of the female voice on the other end of the line.

“Your savings account remains untouched, but almost two thirds of your checkings account was emptied this morning.”

“What?!” You said, louder than intended. You ignored a few students’ glances at you as your heart skipped a beat. Rent was due at the end of the week. You were going grocery shopping on Friday. You had just run out of menstrual pads. Tallying up your weekly expenses in your head, you almost missed the bank employee’s next words.

“We’ve frozen your access to the account until while we figure this out, but it says in our system that whoever withdrew the money has the authority to access your account, meaning that they can view its activity, make deposits, and withdraw money.” Swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat, you leaned on the bench.

“How is that possible? I never gave anyone else access to the account,” you said.

“Well, since you’re under twenty-one, a parent has the right to…” As the woman droned on, you felt anger bubble in your stomach, thinking of the one person who would drain your account to fund their degenerate proclivities. 

Your uncle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait - my senior thesis has been kicking my butt. Hopefully you can relate to the reader's awkwardness and lack of knowledge on anything related to romance (I know I can). What do you think of the introduction of the reader's uncle? He'll be featured more prominently in future chapters...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader sees Bucky again - this time, at work. We learn more about their families.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave reactions, comments, and feedback below! Hope you enjoy!

You awoke with a start, your heart thudding as the remnants of your nightmare replayed in your head. You picked up your phone from the tiny bedside table and saw that it was five-thirty a.m. Groaning, you lay back down, closing your eyes in a desperate effort to fall asleep, only for your uncle to reappear. Your turned over on your stomach, trying to desperately think of anyone else. Your mind wandered to the day before.

The day had started so well. Bucky was so nice. And he seemed interested in what you were studying. You had been nervous for the meeting, worried that Bucky would realize how weird and awkward you were and regret meeting you. Instead, he seemed like he wanted to hang out again. Although that could have been your own desire to see him again clouding your judgement.

The morning had been the best part of your day. From the moment that the bank had called you, you were stressed and anxious about how you were going to make up the difference in the money that you had lost. Even worse than the loss of $200 was the memories of your home life prior to college that had resurfaced, leaving you distracted for the rest of the day. You had made silly errors at the lab, noticeable enough that you had caught Dr. Romanoff with a disapproving look on her face, something that rarely happened while she reviewed your notes and reports.

Finally drifting off, your last thought was that you would need to find another stream of revenue to fill the gaping hole in your bank account. Knowing your uncle, he would have spent half of the money already, and there was no way you were getting the rest back.

“Customers at table three need a refill on their drinks. And table six needs more napkins,” Wanda told you, brushing past you to grab dishes. The smell of steak, mashed potatoes, and gravy wafted from the plates and made your stomach growl. At the sound, you coughed to mask the noise. Your food were running low, and without enough money to purchase groceries for the next few weeks, you had been skipping meals for the past few days. The last thing you had eaten today was a handful of baby carrots for lunch. The good news was that Trip had mentioned that he knew some students who needed a tutor and would send them your way. If you started soon, you’d be able to make $200 in only a few weeks.

“Earth to Y/N,” Wanda said, after you returned to the kitchen after serving your customers. You looked up, realizing you had been staring at the floor, mentally rearranging your weekend schedule to see how much time you would have to tutor.

“What’s up?” You asked, leaning against the wall.

“You’re going to need to stay more alert if you’re working the full shift,” Wanda teased, joining you against the wall. You looked at her, startled that she knew you had changed your work schedule.

“Arnie told me,” Wanda said, referring to the manager. “Apparently I’ll have a buddy to be on trash duty with me,” she said, elbowing you. You chuckled at that. “I know you’re not staying later so that we can spend more time together as we haul trash out to the alley. Is it because of that attractive guy? You want to see him again?” Wanda probed.

“Um,” you mumbled, trying to figure out how to respond. Extending your shifts was an easy way to make some quick cash. Well, “easy” was relative; you were losing two hours of sleep in exchange for an extra seventy bucks per week.

You had dropped hints in the past to Wanda regarding your status as a low-income student, but you had never directly told her how bad your situation could get. You had skipped meals in the past. Not gone to the clinic because the school-sponsored health insurance didn’t cover the medication you needed. There was that one time, still a painful, shameful memory, when you had to sleep outside. But that wasn’t because you were poor. It was because of-

“What was his name again? The one who tried to protect your honor?” Wanda pressed, tapping her hand against her leg as she thought.

“Bucky.” The two of you turned to see Clint plating a dish. “Arnie mentioned his name to me when he explained to me what happened that night,” he supplied, as he crossed his arms. Clint shrugged when you and Wanda raised your eyebrows. “It sounds like the student got what was coming for him, but he wants me to keep an eye out for Bucky, in case there’s trouble in the future,” he shrugged. You bit the inside of your mouth, disliking the idea of someone perceiving Bucky as a threat.

“He’s actually very nice,” you remarked. Wanda turned towards you, curious.

“You gathered that from your five-minute interaction with him?”

“We got coffee a few days ago,” you muttered, averting your eyes and looking through the window of the kitchen door to check on your customers.

“What? Why didn’t you tell me you went on a date?” Wanda shrieked. You suddenly found her in front of you, buzzing with excitement.

“Because it wasn’t a date,” you answered truthfully. You left her stuttering when you saw one of your tables had finished their food.

“Speak of the devil,” Clint said, craning his neck and spotting the very man they had been talking about walk into the restaurant.

Bucky settled into the booth, the plate of chocolate cake half-finished as his eyes followed you. You had waved a hand in greeting when he had entered, but you had rushed off to one of your tables before you had a chance to come over and make conversation.

Bucky had been…perplexed after getting breakfast with you on Monday. He was surprised that you were interested in his life, what he studied, where he worked. But he wished that he had learned more about you. Just as you were warming up to him, opening up, you were called away to the lab.

You had only texted him once since then, but Bucky understood, figuring that you were busy. After all, he knew that you were not only a student, but also worked and interned.

Still, it would have been nice to have a few minutes with you. His father had just informed him that he’d be going with him to Japan next week for a series of meetings and events, meaning that he probably wouldn’t see you for another two weeks.

Tapping his phone against the table mindlessly, Bucky thought of the encounter from earlier today. As always, his father had called him into his large, imposing office. When his father told him the news, all Bucky could get out was,

“I have a negotiations exam next week…” He trailed off when he saw his father’s jaw clench.

“James, I’m sure your university will understand and allow you to take the exam later. This trip itself is a lesson in negotiations,” he had said condescendingly, his eyes glued to the documents he was signing.

“I understand, it’s just that it’s very last minute, and I was planning on-”

“James.” His father's icy tone caused Bucky to stop talking and look up to meet his father's stare. “I obtain a position for you at my company, I invite you on a trip to Japan, I allow you to live in…Brooklyn,” his father continued, his nose crinkling at the thought of anyone living among the working class. “I think I deserve a ‘thank you,’ don’t you?”

Bucky was left momentarily speechless at that. The way his father had phrased the question, it was difficult to turn down the offer (well, it was more of a demand) to accompany him.

So now he was going to Japan in a few days. As always, his father had gotten what he wanted, and Bucky, once again, had done nothing to speak up, a habit that characterized most of his interactions with his father. It was part of the reason why he always left his father feeling on edge. And even though he had seen him more than twelve hours ago, he could still feel it, that sharp, bitter anger that lurked beneath the surface, always threatening to break through unless Bucky could contain himself, talk himself down.

Rubbing his fingers together, trying to get rid of the excess stress that was building in his hand, Bucky readjusted his glove and set his hand by his side, underneath the table and out of sight of the other customers. He sighed, and looked at the clock on his phone. He had been here for a half hour, Steve, his closest friend, wasn’t answering his texts, and the hockey game on the television had become a miserable drone. He looked around for you, but instead of seeing you flitting around the dining room, you were gone.

Pulled out of his reverie by the sound of someone saying your name, he sat up, curious. A few feet away from him was a group of three hulking men. Judging from their backpacks, they were athletes. Remembering your past experience dealing with student athletes, Bucky kept an eye on them as they laughed rambunctiously by the front entrance.

“Hello, can I help you?” The voice came from a woman Bucky recognized as the waitress you were constantly giggling with.

“Yeah, we’re looking for Y/N. We were told we could find her here,” one of the men said. Bucky frowned at that, and he noticed the red-haired waitress’s expression become suspicious.

“I’m sorry, boys, I can’t give out personal information about waitstaff here,” the woman said, tight-lipped.

“C’mon, we just want a minute to talk to her,” one of the other athletes complained.

“Sorry,” your friend said, not looking very sorry at all. Bucky almost chuckled at that, until he realized his metal hand was clenching the table. Rubbing it, he tried to relax it.

The men grumbled, turning to leave. Bucky nodded in approval when he saw your friend made sure they left before turning around. Meeting her eyes, Bucky raised a hand, gesturing for her to come over.

“Anything I can get you?” The woman asked, her voice now friendly.

“Hi, I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Bucky, a friend of Y/N’s,” Bucky said, shooting a disarming smile to the woman whose name tag read “Wanda.” Wanda’s expression softened, a grin on her face.

“Wanda, nice to meet you.” She seemed surprised at Bucky’s outstretched hand, but took it anyways.

“I was just wondering if you’ve seen Y/N. I was hoping I’d get a chance to talk to her tonight,” Bucky continued, using the sweet, charming voice that he often used when he wanted something.

“Of course! I think she’s taking her break. I’ll see if I can find her,” Wanda replied.

“Thank you, Wanda,” Bucky said, his fake smile disappearing as she rushed off. Why were those football players looking for you? It bothered him, even if they were friends of yours and wanted to say hello.

“Hi Bucky,” a soft voice came from beside him. Lost in thought, Bucky hadn’t even seen you make your way across the dining room.

“Hey! Hey, Y/N,” Bucky said, sitting up more, and adjusting his baseball cap. He watched your gaze focus on his hair, falling just at his shoulders. God, he should have kept it up. He always kept it in a bun at work to appease his father, but outside of the stiff corporate environment, he liked to wear it down. After a long day of work, it probably looked matted and tangled. “Your friend, Wanda, mentioned that you’re on your break. Please, sit down.” He gestured to the seat across from him, realizing a split second too late that he used his gloved hand to point to the seat. He scrambled, pulling it back and resting it on his knee, but you hadn’t seemed to notice as you gratefully accepted the offer and sank into the plush seat. Leaning against the booth, you set your phone on the table, and took a swig from your water bottle. Seeing you up close for the first time tonight, Bucky admired you as your eyes darted to the clock before meeting his gaze. He noticed dark circles under your eyes. They hadn’t been there on Monday.

“How are you?” Bucky asked, leaning forward.

“I’m okay,” you responded, fatigue laced in your voice.

“It seems like this week kicked both of our butts,” Bucky said, trying to keep the conversation light. You let out a weak laugh at that, your hands coming to your hair as you let out your bun. This time, it was Bucky’s turn to stare at your curls before you quickly pulled your hair into a pony tail.

“Is it that obvious I’m not getting enough sleep?” You asked, wryly.

“It can’t be worse than what I’m getting.”

“Try me,” You said, cocking your head to the side playfully. Bucky almost felt dizzy from the quick change in your personality. Only a minute ago you were acting shy.

“Five, six hours if I’m lucky,” Bucky offered. You nodded your head, your expression unreadable.

“I see.”

“And you?” Bucky asked, curious.

“Three hours…if I’m lucky,” you imitated, making him laugh before he sobered.

“You really should try to get more sleep. It sounds like you need it for all those tough premed classes you’re in,” Bucky said. You looked down at the table at that, a small smile on your face.

“You remembered,” you murmured, eyes still on the table.

“Of course I remembered. When I get a heart attack at the age of thirty due to the stress of the corporate world, I’ll want you as my doctor,” Bucky joked, and you cracked another smile. God, he loved your smile.

“Honestly, if they brought you in, the first thing I’d notice would be your hair. I’d probably ask them what conditioner you use instead of focusing on your symptoms,” you laughed. With a start, Bucky realized that was one of the few times you had let out a genuine laugh in front of him. “You have great hair,” you commented. Bucky felt his cheeks warm at that. Not all women were a fan of the look, and his father did not hesitate to call it greasy and unhygenic when he got the chance.

“Thanks. You wouldn’t believe how much money I’ve invested in hair care products to get it looking like this,” Bucky joked. “On another note, there were some football players looking for you earlier,” Bucky stated, shifting gears.

“Yeah, Wanda told me. I’m going to start tutoring and I guess my friend told them where I worked instead of giving them my number like a normal person,” you responded, rolling your eyes. Bucky nodded at that, relieved to hear the exhange was related to academics as opposed to social gatherings.

“Tutoring? You have enough time in your schedule for that?” Bucky asked, impressed. You looked up, smiling, although this time, it didn’t reach your eyes. You responded after a beat of silence.

“Not really, but making some extra money never hurts,” you said casually. Bucky nodded, though he was a little concerned that you were overloading your schedule.

“True. Saving up for anything special?” Bucky asked.

“I’m going to the city to help Dr. Romanoff, the lead scientist at my lab, with her presentation at a conference. I need to cover the hotel and transportation costs,” you explained quickly, looking at the television for a moment.

“My father has connections with many of the hotels; if you want a discounted rate-”

“I’m fine, but thanks,” you cut him off. Looking at your phone, you stood up. “My break’s almost over,” you said, apologetically. Reeling from your firm tone, Bucky nodded, speechless for a moment.

“Well, let me know what weekend it is. Maybe I can show you around. If you have time. If you want,” Bucky said, trying to make up for any discomfort he had caused by mentioning his father’s connections. He inwardly cursed himself at the meandering sentence, but saw that you had let out a small smile.

“Will do. I’ll see you later. Enjoy the chocolate cake,” you called.

As you left Bucky, your phone buzzed, indicating a phone call. The only person who called this late was Brianna, and she’d probably be drunk. Hitting the ignore button, you walked inside the small breakroom to return your water bottle and phone, but your phone buzzed again before you could stick it inside your backpack. Turning it around, you were about to answer it and tell Brianna that whatever she wanted to tell you would have to wait, but you fumbled the phone and almost dropped it when you saw the caller. Your heart thudding, you swallowed as your finger hovered over the answer button. It was your uncle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your girl has submitted the rough draft of her eighty-page thesis and applied for a job (which I will most likely not get HA). I now have the time this fic deserves to write some more chapters. I sort of had a plan going into this chapter, but added more info than I was planning regarding Bucky's father. Let me know your reactions, feedback, and any comments you have. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader speaks with her uncle, stays in contact with Bucky as he visits Japan, and is caught in a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy during this pandemic. It's been a while, and I sincerely apologize for the long wait. In the time since I last posted, my classes were switched to online classes, I moved back home, wrote my senior thesis (!!!), finished my classes/job/internship, turned 22, and I am graduating in a few days. It's certainly not how I pictured my senior year ending, but I am grateful that my family has stayed healthy during this. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Bit of a filler but I promise the next few chapters will have more angst, details of Bucky's home life, and interactions between Bucky and the reader. I will be posting more regularly for the next few weeks.

Every bone in your body told you not to answer the call, but you knew there were consequences when you ignored your uncle. Your fingers shaking, you managed to press the button to answer the call, and sank down on the bench, suddenly feeling drained of all energy. You didn’t even have the chance to speak before your uncle started talking, his voice low and slightly slurred.

“You bitch.” You sighed, unsurprised at the obscenity. You just wanted to get this call over with as quickly as possible. You weren’t as affected by his words as you used to be; you had endured this type of language everyday back in high school, and when it happened now, you knew college life was waiting for you after a week or two of being home. You could escape. Knowing this had lessened the edge of his words. “I got a call from the bank today. They told me you’ve closed your account.”

Ah, so that’s what it was. Earlier this week, you had transferred the remainder of your checking and savings accounts to the bank on campus and closed your account at your town’s bamk. It would make withdrawing cash more difficult when you were at his house, but it was worth it, knowing he wouldn’t be able to access your money again.

“Haven’t you taken enough of my money?” You asked, trying to keep your tone level. You took a look at the clock. Crap, you had a minute left in your break. “I have to go.”

“You’re going to pay for your sass. Don’t forget that I pay for your tuition…” You zoned out as your uncle listed all the ways in which he had been a model guardian since your parents had passed away. You didn’t bother to correct him. In reality, he paid for about a quarter of your tuition. The rest was covered by merit-based scholarships from various organizations and financial aid from the school.

“…I’ll see you in November. You’re going to regret talking to me like that.” You pursed your lips. Like hell you’d be going back for Thanksgiving break, especially after what happened last year. You still remembered the way the wind cut into your thin coat as you huddled at the back of an alley, trying to catch a few hours of sleep before the sun rose.

“Y/N, we need you in the front,” a voice cut in. You turned to see Arnie, the manager, standing outside the breakroom looking mildly irritated. You nodded, and ended the call as your uncle continued to spout profanity. Heading to the main dining room, you tried not to show disappointment when you realized that Bucky had left. Ducking your head, you got back to work and tried not to push the phone call out of your head.

Rays of sunlight hit your face, coming in through the only window in your basement unit. You blinked your eyes awake, wishing you had an extra few hours to sleep. Changing into a workout outfit, you noticed that you had a few unanswered texts. Seeing Bucky’s name, you let out a small smile without thinking. Tapping the message, you read it as you brushed your teeth.

B: It was nice seeing you yesterday! Hope the rest of your shift went ok. Which weekend are you in NYC?

It was nice of him to check in. Responding, you pulled on your gym shoes and looked at the message Trip had sent, after you had reamed him for telling those football players where you worked.

T: I’m sorry! I think they wanted to meet you in person before agreeing to anything. I gave them your number tho.

You snorted at that – they probably wanted to meet you to make sure you were pretty enough. Creeps. Still, you needed the money, and athletes at your school tended to come from high-income backgrounds. They also needed to maintain a certain GPA, and if they were desperate enough, would probably pay higher to get a passing grade.

You were about to go on your run when you realized that you had gotten a text from an unknown number, an athlete who needed help in a pre-med class. You quickly introduced yourself and told the student what your availability was.

Forty-five minutes later, you returned to your house, huffing from the sprint you finished your run with. Using the side door, you walked directly into your basement apartment and pulled out your yoga mat to finish your workout with an abs series.

By the time you had showered and set off for the lab, you had two tutoring sessions set up for tomorrow. Things were starting to look up. As you walked through the front gates of campus, your phone dinged. Glancing at it, you saw that Bucky had responded.

B: Great, I’ll be in town that weekend. Wanted to make sure it wasn’t this week since I’m traveling.

Y/N: Exciting! Where are you going?

You tapped out the response, then put your phone on silent as you entered the lab.

“Who keeps texting you?” Brianna inquired, taking another bite from her Sweetgreen salad. The two of you had been studying – well, you had resorted to busy work, while Brianna talked about her love life – for the past hour at the student center.

Brianna was someone you had never thought you’d be friends with. The two of you had been freshman year roommates. At first, you had thought she was another spoiled, self-centered, rich girl, but you had realized after a time that she was caring and kind. By winter break, the two of you had become close, often going to the dining hall together or shopping on the weekends (Well, Brianna would shop, while you sat outside the dressing room, telling her how great she looked).

This year, Brianna had chosen to live in expensive off-campus housing with some of her sorority friends. She had invited you to live with her, but the price was exhorbitant, and so you made up an excuse that you had already found a one-room apartment for yourself. In reality, you hadn’t found housing at the time and found the basement room right before the deadline to finalize housing plans for the next semester. Her participation in Greek life and the revolving door of boyfriends had kept her busy this semester, meaning that the two of you hadn’t seen eachother as much as you’d like.

“What?” You asked, your eyes on your laptop as you pulled up a lecture on Powerpoint. Swiping your phone, Brianna looked at the messages.

“Hey!”

“Who’s Bucky?” She asked, her forehead crinkled.

“Just a friend,” you answered, taking your phone back and setting it in your backpack.

“A friend whose texts you’re hiding from me?” Brianna asked, her eyes slit in suspicion. You nodded, tight-lipped, as you reviewed the lecture in front of you.

“How’d you two meet?” Brianna pressed. You looked up from the slides with a sigh. You weren’t sure why you were keeping Bucky a secret from her. It’s not like you liked him. He was certainly attractive, but you were adamant that the only feelings you had for Bucky were platonic. _Since when does your heart jump out of your chest at the sight of a platonic friend?_ The thought entered your mind, and you quickly pushed it aside.

Or perhaps it was because Brianna had a magnetic personality that lit up every room she entered. She was a natural blonde with a body that you knew other women would kill for. A part of you didn’t want Brianna to know about Bucky because you were afraid Bucky would be enchanted by her and forget about you. It had certainly happened before. A sudden memory of a party came to you; you remembered the way that guys’ eyes had slid over you in favor of Brianna, often speaking over you to catch her attention. There was nothing worse than feeling nonexistent, useless, and ignored. You had plenty of experience of that back in high school.

“He’s a customer at Sam’s and a graduate student here. We text every now and then,” you remarked casually, continuing to scan the slides on your laptop.

“That’s cute. What’s his last name?” Brianna asked, pulling out her phone and opening Instagram. You shrugged. That had never come up in the few conversations you two had had. Was that strange? You weren’t sure.

“How does he spell Bucky?” You sighed; it was useless trying to get anything done with her pestering you. You closed your laptop and looked up.

“I think it’s B-u-c-k-y,” you guessed. Brianna tapped in the name, and scrolled through profiles that appeared. She held up her phone to show you them.

“Which one is he?” You squinted, then put on the ridiculously large glasses you had to use when reading small text.

“Um, this is him,” you said, spotting a tiny profile picture of Bucky smiling at the camera, baseball cap on. Tapping on the photo, you admired his features. He looked like he was sitting at a bar, his elbow resting on the table. His eyes shining, he looked like he was mid-laugh. His profile was private, so you couldn’t view his pictures, but you noticed his follower count, about three thousand followers. Marveling at how one could have so many friends, you thought back to your Instagram account, which only had about three hundred followers, a mishmash of old high school friends you hadn’t seen since graduation and college classmates.

“Wow, he’s yummy,” Brianna said, her eyebrows shooting up as she looked at his profile. You bit your lip, silently agreeing with the adjective she had used to describe Bucky. She tapped the button to request to follow him, making your eyes widen.

“What the hell?” You exclaimed, causing a few students to glance at you.

“What?” Brianna asked, innocently batting her eyes.

“He’s going to figure out that we’re friends, and then make the connection that we were talking about him-”

“No he won’t, you overthink things too much, Y/N,” Brianna responded, rolling her eyes and finally opening her textbook.

You sighed, hoping she was right.

It was later that night, and you were snuggled up in your futon, pulling your sheets close to shield your body from the chill that crept into the basement. It was October, the days were growing shorter, and the temperature seemed to drop a little more each day.

You had had your first tutoring sessions that night after studying with Brianna. It was with football players who were having trouble with their biology courses all pre-med students were required to take. Both guys had been nice and rather harmless, which had surprised you considering the bad impression you had of student athletes in general. After the one-hour sessions, they seemed to grasp the concepts better and wanted to meet again next week. They had also paid you thirty dollars each. You calculated that you needed only five more tutoring sessions to make the $200 your uncle had stolen, and with Trip’s hep, you could make the money back sooner than you had anticipated because of the tutoring requests you were fielding. Feeling a sense of hope swell within you, you turned to see that you had a new text message. You would have ignored it, but seeing Bucky’s name made you sit up and unlock the device.

B: If I have to say the words, “market,” “efficiency,” and “profit,” again, I’m going to scream.

Y/N: Lol. The Japan trip’s not going well then?

B: It’s fine. Just miss being home.

You paused for a moment, trying to figure out how to continue the conversation. Looking down, you saw that you didn’t need to.

B: Remind me again when you’ll be in NYC.

Y/N: In two weeks, Fri morning until Sat evening.

The conference Dr. Romanoff was presenting at had kept you busier than normal. You and her lab assistant, Michael, were constantly double and triple-checking slides, reviewing scholarly materials, and checking data points. Dr. Romanoff had even given you temporary supervision over the other interns. Their disdain for you had quickly transformed into grudging respect as they realized that Dr. Romanoff’s impression of them relied on following your orders.

B: You should stay until Sunday! I could take you to all of the hidden gems of the city.

Your heart sputtered to a stop, imagining an entire day spent with Bucky. Just the two of you. Alone. Your first reaction was to say yes, but logistically, you weren’t sure if it was possible. Dr. Romanoff had told you that the research department would cover the hotel and meal expenses for the weekend, but you had assumed she had meant just until Saturday, since that’s when Michael was planning on heading back to your college town. Dr. Romanoff was returning the next day, since she had meetings on Sunday with friends and former colleagues.

Y/N: Not sure if the department will cover the hotel costs, but I’ll check and get back to you. It would be fun.

B: I’m sure we can figure something out. Let’s get lunch when I get back and we can talk it over.

Your mouth dropped open at that. Another meeting? _Not a meeting – a date_ , a part of you said. You didn’t know if you could handle the nerves that you felt when you saw and spoke with Bucky. But even though you felt nervous when around him, you also felt happier. You liked the way the feeling warmed you, even hours after you had seen him. Telling yourself to stop overthinking this, you texted him a few days when you were available, then put your phone away. Drawing the covers around you, you rolled onto your stomach in an attempt to get some much-needed sleep.

Clint stole another glance at the statuesque woman sipping a drink at the bar. From the few words they had exchanged with eachother, he knew that her name was Natasha and she was a scientist at the university. Although she was at Sam’s sporadically, she always grabbed Clint’s attention when in the restaurant, an air of intrigue about her. He averted his eyes as she looked up and refocused his attention on the sizzling meat in front of him. A few minutes later, he plated the meals and handed them to Wanda. Noting the lack of orders that had come in, he wandered towards the bar, nodding at Pietro who was cleaning some glasses.

“Long night?” Clint looked up to see Natasha arching one of her eyebrows, her figure enveloped in a leather jacket and skintight jeans. She leaned against the bar gracefully and tucked a curl of her reddish hair behind her ear.

“You could say that,” Clint admitted, stopping in front of her, crossing his arms as he surveyed the mostly empty restaurant.

“That makes two of us. At least you don’t seem to work with morons,” Natasha stated, her expression impassive despite the insult. Clint let out a bark of laughter, and Natasha leaned forward. “They don’t make college students like they used to. One ounce of added pressure and they crack.”

Clint looked at the scientist, inquisitive. Natasha noticed his expression, and continued.

“I’m the keynote speaker at a conference in a few weeks. There’s been additional work for all of us at the lab, but some of the students haven’t been able to handle the stress as well as I would like. They won’t be receiving return offers in the spring,” She clarified, matter of fact. Clint admired her directness before her next words interrupted his thoughts.

“Actually, I believe one of my interns works here. Do you know Y/N?” The mention of the friendly but quiet waitress made Clint look up.

“Yes, she’s a waitress here. Good kid.”

“She is,” Natasha agreed, though she revealed nothing more about the girl’s work at her lab.

“Is the conference in the city? I know Y/N has been working some extra shifts to afford the trip,” Clint remarked. Natasha stilled for a moment.

“It is in the city, but the university is covering her expenses.” At that, she met Clint’s confused expression with a stare that unnerved him. “She lied to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of the chapter? Do you think Clint will confront the reader over her lie? Will Bucky be jealous about the tutoring sessions? I'm open to all feedback and comments you have!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader and Bucky meet for lunch. We learn more about his prosthetic, his father, and his trip to Japan, but most importantly, what he thinks about the reader.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This must have been one of the quickest turn arounds for a new chapter - and one of my longest chapters yet. Probably because I'm four days into my postgrad life with no job, stuck at home. But I'm trying to make the most of it and update more frequently! Hope you're all staying safe and healthy. Thanks for reading!

Bucky pushed open the glass door of the restaurant, and his senses were immediately overpowered by the aroma of pasta sauce and sizzling pizza. Scanning the crowded room for you, he couldn’t find you but he wasn’t worried. He had arrived a few minutes early to make sure that the two of you didn’t have to wait for a table. The Italian restaurant was overflowing with college students, professors, and professionals taking their lunch breaks. Bucky had sensed some reluctance from you when he had suggested you meet here; he was relieved when you had agreed to meet after rearranging your schedule. He wasn’t sure why you had seemed hesitant to eat here. Perhaps you didn’t like Italian food or the restaurant was too out of your way. Bucky scolded himself for not considering that when choosing a place to eat: As far as he knew, you didn’t have a car, and the restaurant was a twenty-minute walk from campus. Paired with the gusty winds, he was worried you’d catch a cold, especially with the threadbore coat you had been sporting ever since the temperature had dropped. 

A beaming hostess interrupted Bucky’s thoughts. 

“Table for two please, somewhere private,” Bucky directed her. She nodded, and led him to a table in the back corner of the restaurant. The din of the restaurant was reduced to a low hum, a sparse number of diners were seated at tables farther from the table.

Texting you to make sure you hadn’t gotten lost, Bucky took off his coat and strategically placed it on the seat to his left. Because of this, you could either sit across from him or to his right and luckily, not notice that he wore a glove indoors. Pulling at the black material, he made sure it was covering the prosthetic arm. He had never had issues with the glove in the past, but readjusting it was a nervous tic he had. It went up a few inches past his wrist to ensure that the arm wasn’t visible even when he wore long-sleeved shirts with loose sleeves that rode up, and it even came in different colors. Although he typically opted for black, he had wavered for a few moments this morning, wondering if the nude-colored one would be a better option. What the hell, Y/N’s probably going to notice at some point. He had pulled on the black glove, and he hoped you would be nice enough to avoid commenting on it if he had made a careless mistake and reached for food with his left hand.

William Barnes had been the one to suggest the glove. After Bucky received the go-ahead to wear his prosthetic arm permanently, and not just during physical therapy visits, he had been driven home by one of his father’s lackeys – his father was tied up in meetings and his mother was out of the country at a charity event. He would never forget the look his father had when he spotted Bucky’s arm for the first time as he entered his parents’ penthouse apartment. 

“That’s ghastly.” His father had said, his lips crinkled in disgust as he surveyed the silver hunk of metal. Taking a drink from the whiskey he had poured, he turned around to return to his office.

When Bucky had first been told about the experimental technology by one of the fancy doctors his mother had flown in, he perceived it as an impressive piece of technology, and as the weeks passed, had begun to think of it as part of him, an extension of himself. It was a feeling that began to blossom during fittings and physical therapy but was immediately snuffed out as soon as Bucky witnessed his father’s disapproval. His father’s words made him look at the arm in a new light. Here, away from the calming environment of his therapist’s office and without hearing his therapist’s patient, encouraging words, the arm seemed out of place, even monstrous. 

Bucky’s eyes had dropped to the ground, unsure of how to respond. His father had been the one who had been keen on him receiving the prosthetic, so he hadn’t been anticipating this response. He wanted to show his father that he could cook his own dinner again, write, hell, even go to the bathroom without the assistance of the attendant his mother had hired. Watching his father’s receding frame, he felt his chest tighten and anger pool in his stomach. Suddenly, he felt a tight pinch in his prosthetic hand. Frowning, he rubbed it, but the dull pain didn’t subside until later that night when he had gone out with Steve and loosened up a little.

The next day, Bucky woke up to see a variety of gloves lying on his dresser. He tested them out, and quickly chose a few that he preferred. During dinner that night, he noticed his father’s nod of approval as he spotted the glove, and that was that. Ever since, unless he was by himself or with Steve, he rarely went without it. 

“Bucky?” A soft voice interrupted his thoughts. Looking up, Bucky saw you standing in front of the table, your hands fiddling together as you waited for him to answer.

“Hi, Y/N, sorry I didn’t see you there. Just zoned out for a bit,” Bucky said, standing up. He surveyed you, appreciating the way your oversized sweater swallowed your frame and emphasized your toned, muscular legs. Your hair was pulled up in a ponytail and a bit frizzy, and paired with your glasses and backpack slung over your shoulder, you looked very studious. Bucky had really only seen you in a Sam’s shirt and jeans, so he felt like he was seeing a new version of you.

His instinct told him to hug you, since he hadn’t seen you in a week and a half, but he didn’t know how comfortable you’d be with that. Besides, the two of you had really only known each other for a month, and he wasn’t sure if you even considered him a friend. 

Instead, he stayed standing as you sat down to his right, placing your backpack on the chair across from him. Your arm brushed his as you got situated, and Bucky wondered if the red bloom on your cheeks was from the encounter or the brisk weather outside.

“Find this place okay?” Bucky asked, handing you a menu. You thanked him, and as you opened the menu, Bucky silenced his phone.

“Yes, just a bit farther than I remember. I’ve passed by this place on the way to the post office and pharmacy, but I’ve never eaten here. I’m excited,” you responded, a genuine smile on your face. Bucky relished this expression of yours. He was beginning to notice that your smile was a rarity, and he didn’t know what to make of that.

“It’s just as good, if not better, than the Italian restaurants in the city. And for half the price,” Bucky remarked, studying your profile as you scanned the menu. He thought he saw your smile become strained at the latter half of his statement, but he blinked and it had reverted to a pleasant crinkle.

“Can I get you two anything to drink before ordering?” A waitress pulled up to their table out of nowhere. 

“Just water for me, please,” Bucky said.

“I’ll have the same,” you replied, genial. The waitress nodded and left after Bucky told her they needed an additional few minutes to decide their order.

“What do you recommend?” You asked, cocking your head to the side as your eyes locked with his. Bucky liked knowing that you trusted him, even if the matter was as insignificant as what to order from a lunch menu.

“I thought we could start with an appetizer – they have the most divine tomato soup. They infuse basil in it and serve it with fresh mozzarella.” 

“That sounds like the perfect meal given this weather,” you commented. Bucky nodded, his eyes straying to your coat again. He could see how worn it was even from here, and he worried that it wasn’t as protective as it should be.

“For a main, I really like the Pappardelle con Coda alla Vaccinara or Fettuccine Nere.” Pausing to see confusion on your face, Bucky patiently explained the dishes and their accompanying flavors and ingredients. You nodded, hanging on to his every word. He watched as your eyes darted down to read the descriptions of the meals and the prices next to each dish. 

“I think I may stick with the soup; I had a bit of a big breakfast,” you disclosed, although this time, you didn’t make eye contact.   
Bucky wondered if there was more to that statement than you were letting on since you had seemed excited about the dishes only a minute ago. He didn’t want you eating only soup – it didn’t seem like enough to properly fill you up and provide you with the nutrients you needed. Bucky immediately cringed at the sappy thought. Protective much, Bucky? He tried a different tactic.

“We could share one of the dishes if you’d like. The serving sizes are pretty large,” Bucky remarked, keeping his expression neutral. You considered it for a moment, then nodded. 

“Sure. The squid ink pasta sounds promising.” Relieved, Bucky got the waitress’s attention and placed your orders. Turning to face you, he watched as you responded to a text, then put your phone away.

“Sorry,” you said quickly. “Time-sensitive question from the lab.” 

“How are the preparations for the conference going?” Bucky inquired, taking a sip from his drink. As you launched into a detailed explanation, Bucky listened attentively, stealing subtle glances at your plump lips every so often. It sounded like you were putting in many hours and were genuinely interested in the work of the scientist you worked for, Dr. Romanoff. Bucky didn’t quite understand the jargon you were throwing out, but he did know that your commitment to your work was admirable.

“…Anyways, it’s crazy that all of this planning will be over in just a few days,” you concluded. “I talked to Dr. Romanoff and she said that the department can cover my expenses if I leave Sunday evening instead of Saturday. The conference’s final event is a brunch on Sunday morning, but I’ll have at least four or five hours after that to spend with you before my train leaves.” Your words had faltered at the end of the sentence, looking up at Bucky as if to make sure that he was still interested in taking you around the city.

“That’s great! Now you can pocket some of that tutoring money,” Bucky teased. You lifted your mouth, though the smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. Wondering if he had said something wrong, Bucky’s thoughts were interrupted by steaming bowls of soup being placed in front of you. He watched as you took a tentative sip of the soup, as it was still quite hot. He felt satisfied as you took another more enthusiastic bite.

“This is delicious!” You exclaimed, your glasses fogging up a bit. The two of you laughed at the ridiculous moment, and you pushed them up on your head.

“I like them,” Bucky said, after digging into his soup.

“Hm?” You asked, shifting in your seat. Your foot bumped his as you did so.

“Your glasses.” At that, you rolled your eyes.

“Thanks. They make me look like a grandma, but I guess vision is sort of essential, so.” You shrugged, and Bucky broke into a belly laugh at your sarcasm. He was once again being introduced to another side of you; your smile was rare, but your sarcasm was even more scarce. You looked surprised at his outburst though not unhappy.

“Anyways, that’s great news about the New York trip. When you have a chance, text me the name of the venue you’ll be at so I know where to pick you up. I’m going to cultivate a list of some activities later today and run them by you tonight,” Bucky said. He knew he had some readings to get done tonight and a few spreadsheets to complete for the office, but that could wait. You had mentioned over text that you had rarely gone into the city, and so he really wanted to make this trip special.

“Sounds good. I’m excited,” you said, almost bouncing in your seat. Bucky softened. You were adorable. At that moment, the waitress returned with a large plate of the squid ink pasta. Your eyes grew wide at the dish overflowing with shrimp and octopus. You thanked the waitress as she deposited two smaller plates so that you could split the dish.

“I don’t remember the last time I ate seafood,” you intoned before accepting the serving fork Bucky handed you. “Speaking of trips, how was Japan? I want to hear everything.” You leaned forward, eyes bright. Before Bucky could respond, his phone buzzed. Frowning, he picked it up and saw that it was his father calling him. He had sworn he had put his phone on silent, but his settings allowed for it to vibrate when either of his parents called him more than once. 

“Sorry, one moment,” Bucky muttered, bracing himself. Clearing his throat, he answered the call.

“Hello.”

“James, you need to pick up as soon as I call you. You know I can’t stand wasted time,” William Barnes grit out.

“Sorry,” Bucky said, his voice flat. He perked up as he saw you take your first bite of the pasta and give him a thumbs up, but the feeling didn’t last.

“Why aren’t you at the office? I need to look over those spreadsheets before my three o’clock meeting.” 

“Already emailed them to Kathy,” Bucky responded in a clipped tone, referring to his father’s secretary.

“Yes, and I reviewed them and found some inconsistencies. I need revisions in two hours. Stop being a lazy fuck and get to the office now.” Bucky didn’t even react to the profanity his father had used; it was a common occurrence. 

“I’m in the middle of a lunch date. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he stated mechanically, hanging up. Turning to you, he noticed the tips of your ears reddening.

“Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” you said, pushing the pasta towards him. As he served himself, you tentatively asked,

“Who was calling?”

“Just my father. He’s at the office and needs some files.” You nodded, thankfully not asking more follow-up questions to Bucky’s vague answer. He tried to avoid talking about his job at his father’s real estate firm as much as possible. As Steve had told him once, when Bucky talked about the work, the distaste he had for his father and the business was only too evident and could cast a shadow on the conversation. Not that Steve minded. Steve must have sat through hours of conversations the two of them had after a recent confrontation Bucky had with his father. Well, oftentimes it was Bucky ranting and cussing out his father, regretful that he hadn’t hurled the spiteful words at his father when he had the chance.

“He was with you when you went to Japan, right?” You clarified, looking down for a moment to cut a piece of the octopus. Bucky’s jaw clenched for a moment, then relaxed when you looked back at him.

“Yes,” he said, taking a bite of the pasta. Not even its delicious flavor could distract him from the painful memories of the trip.

As soon as the private jet had landed in Tokyo, William Barnes’ steely personality transformed into a polite smile and restrained words. Bucky was thrown off by the change, although one of his father’s associated had told him it was his way of being diplomatic. Still, it had given Bucky whiplash. During their first night, they had been treated to a lavish ten-course meal at one of the best restaurants in the country. Bucky, his father, and a few other top-tiered leaders in the company were seated among Japanese business leaders and politicians. Bucky couldn’t believe his ears when his father showered him with praise, mentioning that he had graduated top of his class, interned for some of the top real estate firms in the U.S., and had even done a consulting project for one of the Japanese prime minister’s close friends, a business magnate in England. The way his father had smiled at him while he boasted about his son lulled Bucky into a false sense of security. He hadn’t seen his father look that proud of him in a long time – maybe ever. 

But his father’s posturing didn’t last. As soon as the two of them stepped into the penthouse suite later that night, William berated Bucky while his son had tried to get ready to go to bed. 

“As soon as we’re getting back home, you’re getting a haircut. I saw the way those men were staring at your hair. It’s barbaric. Not to mention incredibly greasy,” his father had spat out. Bucky had tried to ignore him as he unpacked his suitcase in the adjoining room but self-consciously ran a hand through his locks. He had worn it in a bun like his father had instructed, but the gesture wasn’t enough to satisfy his father.

“You also clearly did not practice enough with the Japanese tutor I sent you,” His father called out as Bucky changed into pajamas, his back hunched as his father’s torrent rained down on him.   
“That greeting was pathetic.”

His father’s domineering build suddenly filled the doorway and nearly gave Bucky a heart attack.

“Pull yourself together, James. Don’t think I’m above sending you home if you fuck up this deal.” Bucky had nodded wordlessly, waiting for his father to lumber off. Letting out a sigh of relief, he was about to go to the bathroom, when he heard his father’s thunderous shout:

“AND FOR GOD’S SAKE, STOP INTRODUCING YOURSELF BY THAT RIDICULOUS NICKNAME!” 

“It sounds like it was a stressful trip. But a good learning experience,” you offered, finishing the last bite of pasta on your plate. Bucky had told a shortened, glamorized version of his time in Tokyo, and he was relieved that you had bought it. 

“It was,” he agreed. “Want any more pasta? Otherwise I’ll ask for it to be boxed up,” Bucky said, trying to nudge the conversation away from anything that would spark a memory of his father.

“I’m okay. I’m stuffed. That was delicious,” you said, leaning back in your chair and patting your stomach cheerfully. Bucky was proud that you had enjoyed the meal; you looked incredibly cute and content.

After their pasta was bundled up in a container, the waitress dropped off the bill. You pulled your backpack onto your lap and rummaged around for your wallet.

“Don’t worry, I got it,” Bucky commented, placing his card in the folds of the server book. 

“Hold on,” you objected, and your hand came up to pull the book towards you, brushing his fingers in the process. Bucky stilled at the touch. You pulled your hand away, your face flushed, and he instantly craved the contact.

“It’s fine, Y/N. It was my suggestion we come here, so I don’t mind covering it.” Bucky attempted to placate you, but you pouted, making the corner of Bucky’s lips twitch at the sight.

“At least let me cover half.” Bucky saw the waitress returning to the table out of the corner of his eye.

“Tell you what – the next time we go out together or get coffee, I’ll let you pay.” Bucky assented. As Bucky closed the server book, he missed the surprise flit across your face. “Is that alright with you?” 

“Sure,” you murmured. The two of you chatted while you waited for Bucky to get his card back. Even after the card was handed back to him, the two of you seemed to lose track of time as you discussed classes, professors, and funny on-campus stories. 

The sound of your phone buzzing pulled Bucky from his reverie. He was listening to you narrate a humorous story involving a friend you had named Brianna. 

“Wow, I really lost track of time. I have a tutoring session in fifteen,” you said, regret evident on your face.

“I can give you a ride back to campus,” Bucky offered. You looked up at that.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a hassle-”

“It’s no problem at all. Besides, it’s getting cold.” As you stood up to pick up your bag, he eyed your worn coat for the third time, but this time a crease appeared between his eyebrows as he wondered if that was your winter coat. It looked much too thin to handle the frigid New York winters. I need to find a way to remedy that problem.

The sound of you thanking the hostess drew him from his thoughts on your wellbeing. You were always so polite, another characteristic that he was slowly realizing as the two of you spent more time together. 

“I’m parked around the corner. How’s the tutoring been?” Bucky asked, holding the door open for you as you exited the restaurant.

“Good, better than I thought it would go actually. But the session I’m going to is actually tutoring for me.” 

Rounding the corner, Bucky pointed to his car which was parallel parked a few feet away. He unlocked it and looked across the street, about to cross in front of the Range Rover so that he could get into the driver’s seat. The sound of your huff made him turn around. He realized that you needed to take a large step to get into the vehicle. Hurrying back to you, he held out his hand. With a start, he realized that he had been so quick to act that he had deftly offered his gloved hand. 

You glanced at his hand for a second too long before taking it and stepping into the car. Bucky was so wrought with anxiety as to what you thought of the glove that he didn’t fully enjoy the feeling of your hand clasped in his until your hand withdrew. 

As Bucky got into the driver’s seat, he started the car, worried that he couldn’t decipher your expression when you had looked at the glove. He wasn’t sure if you were confused by it or scared away. Or both. He decided that your silence was a good sign, for now at least. Peeling away from the curb, he almost missed your whispered thanks.

“What are you being tutored in? You seem to be excelling in all of your classes,” Bucky continued the conversation, in an effort to fulfill his curiosity but also distract you from asking about his prosthetic limb. He took a look at you out of the corner of his eye and appreciated the light flush peppering your cheeks at the compliment.

“I’m in an Arabic class. It’s pretty tough,” you responded, your tone weary.

“Wow! I had no idea you were taking a foreign language as well,” Bucky marveled, turning towards campus. As you explained how you had discovered the language and fell in love with it, Bucky listened, rapt. He was impressed by your dedication. Although he remembered a bit of French and Italian from high school, he was nowhere near as fluent as he should have been after years of lessons. 

As the two of you neared campus, Bucky had an irrational urge to turn around, speed onto to the highway, and take you back to his apartment where the two of you could continue your conversation away from inconsequential distractions and prying eyes. You would stay for dinner, and he would cook that ravioli he had been itching to make for weeks. The two of you would curl up on his couch and listen to music or watch a movie or play a card game and by the time you knew it, the sun would go down and the last train to campus would have departed and you would have to stay the night – Bucky, stop.

The fantasy vanished almost as quickly as it began. 

“Thanks again for the ride, Bucky. I appreciate it. I’ll see you later!” You beamed, picking up your bag. He echoed the sentiment, waving to you through the window as you lugged your bag up the steps. 

Driving back to the city, Bucky chewed his bottom lip as he replayed your interactions with him over and over again. Had you noticed the gloved prosthetic from the very start of lunch and had been too polite to ask about it? Or perhaps you hadn’t noticed and he was blowing this out of proportion. Even worse, maybe you had noticed it and thought it was disgusting and unnatural. But if so, your smile and shining eyes as you waved goodbye wouldn’t make sense. Bucky let out an exasperated sigh, a pool of dread forming as he made his way back to the office. Back to his father.

The tutoring session had been tough. All you wanted to do was daydream about the lunch you had with Bucky, but Brock was adament you conjugate as many irregular verbs as possible. Still, your mind drifted to Bucky. He had laughed at your jokes, was interested in your classes, and had even covered the meal. He was so nice. Even though you still felt shy when you saw him, you were starting to feel more comfortable around him.

“Want anything from the coffee shop?” Trip asked. After Brock was satisfied with your ability to conjugate one of the most inexplicably complicated verbs, رأى , he had ended the session, and Trip had joined the two of you as you worked individually on homework.

“I’m okay, I had a big lunch.”

“I saw that pic on your Instagram story! You went to Campagnola?” Trip asked, leaning in, excited. “I love that place. I didn’t know you liked it too.”

“I don’t; I went with a friend.” Something in your voice made Trip raise his eyebrows. He looked at Brock, who had Airpods in and was turned away from you.

"Is this the mystery guy Brianna was telling me about? What’s his name, Brody? Buddy?” Your mouth dropped open in fake outrage.

“First of all – you and Brianna were talking about me?”

“Of course. I bumped into her at one of her sorority’s events last weekend.” Trip waved his hand carelessly. “You didn’t answer my question,” he sang, poking you.

“Um, yeah, I went with him. His name is Bucky.” Trip lit up at the sound of his name.

“That’s right, it’s Bucky. How was your lunch date?”

“It wasn’t a date,” you grumbled. You refused to believe that a kind, attractive, smart guy like Bucky would be attracted to you, especially after only a month of the two of you knowing eachother.

“He’s a graduate student, right? I bet he lives in the city. Are the two of you hanging out this weekend while you’re at the conference?” You were overwhelmed by the quick deductions Trip had made and his subsequent questions.

“Um, yes,” you squeaked. Trip’s eyes widened comically.

“Just you two?”

“I think so.”

“Y/N! That’s a date,” Trip cried, his arms raising triumphantly. Shushing him, you tried to ignore the part of you that hoped what he had said was true. “Why are you in denial?” Trip asked. He may have been joking but something in your eyes made his expression sober. You wanted to help him understand – tell him that you weren’t capable of being loved, that you had too much baggage, that you weren’t even in the same league as Bucky, but your throat closed, and nothing came out. A moment of silence extended between the two of you before you spoke.

“Trip, can we not talk about this? I have a lot of work to do,” you entreated him. He sighed, then got up, preparing to get a coffee from the nearby shop.

“Fine. But you have to tell me and Brianna everything that happens afterwards,” Trip commanded, though the smile dancing on his lips told you he wouldn’t hold you to it if you didn’t want to talk about it.

“I hope you’ve thought about the very real possibility that he could kiss you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is the big NYC date! It's going to take some time because I need to do some minor research and consult with friends who live in NYC. What do you want to happen? How will Brock factor in? He may play a role...
> 
> Thanks for reading! Leave comments and feedback below!


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